War and the Soul
by raemanzu and spica tea
Summary: Set after DH, heavy canon compliance. The wizarding world is just starting to pick itself back up when their celebrated savior Harry Potter begins to doubt whether Voldemort is really dead... All characters, hints of canon ships, no romance, no slash.
1. Life Will Continue On

A/N: This literally begins immediately after the last chapter of Deathly Hallows. We've striven for complete canon compliance up until that point, so if you come across any continuity errors, we'd love to be noted about them. Post DH canon is on a pick and choose basis, so please don't send notes about that. Otherwise, enjoy the story, drop a review, and look forward to what will hopefully become something of a gripping story! This will be at least one book's length long.

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><p><strong>Chapter One – Life Will Continue On<strong>

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

It was over at last. Seventeen years and several deaths had brought Harry—and the entirety of wizarding Britain—to this point of utter victory. At last Voldemort was gone, killed by his own rebounding curse once again, and this time for good. Harry stood in the headmaster's office, all the previous headmasters beaming at him in approval, Dumbledore's cheeks still gleaming with tears of pride, and Hermione and Ron stood behind him as they had since the beginning. It was late in the morning, or perhaps early afternoon, and he had done everything he'd set out to do.

With a last glance at Dumbledore's smiling portrait, Harry took Ron and Hermione by the arms and led them out of the office. They closed the door behind them to another round of thunderous applause from the previous headmasters, and Harry felt his exhaustion topple onto him like a giant's fist, and his knees momentarily buckled in response.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione asked anxiously, gripping his arm in turn as he steadied himself.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm just… tired."

"Of course you are! You've been awake all night after all."

"Let's get back to the common room then," Ron croaked, still bleary-eyed from crying over Fred's body. "I fancy myself a kip too."

Slowly, they made their way down the staircase and clambered over the toppled stone gargoyle once again, with a mumbled "Sorry" or two.

"Oh don't mind me," the gargoyle sighed.

The walk to the Fat Lady's portrait seemed to take ages, and was interrupted when an enormous something collided with Harry's body, emitting odd hiccupping and moaning sounds. Before feeling much else, Harry's heart seemed to freeze and crack in his chest. Not another one, not another death—he couldn't bear it—

"Knew yeh couldn' be—'course I knew, but for a mo—really thought you were—why didn' yeh say somethin'!"

"Hagrid—" Harry groaned, though some warmth was coming back into him at remembering Hagrid was alive. His aching body was not taking well to being squeezed by Hagrid's massive arms.

"Let him breathe, Hagrid!" Hermione squeaked.

"Alrigh' then, Harry?" Hagrid stepped back to get a better look at him, teary-eyed, beaming, and sporting a black eye and several other minor wounds. "I wanted ter congratulate yeh! Yeh did it! Yeh really stumped him! Thought I'd let everyone else get a look at yeh, couldn' really get close 'cause o' the crowd."

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said weakly, massaging his arm where Hagrid had squashed it against his body. The words came out of his mouth automatically. "Are you alright? What happened? The spiders—"

"Oh yeah," Hagrid choked. "'m fine, jus' a bit… a bit—" He took out his blanket-sized handkerchief and blew it hard, seeming overcome.

"And er, Grawp, he's alright too, isn't he?" Hermione said kindly, patting Hagrid's elbow. "So everything's okay." She cast a worried glance at Ron, as if to make sure he didn't think she was forgetting about Fred. Ron's face was blank and bloodless, a bit like it had looked when his slug-barfing jinx had backfired so long ago. Harry's gut twisted like a wrung cloth and he realized how very ill he felt—dizzy, nauseous, trembling a little. It seemed that he would go mad if he couldn't lie down for a moment and stop thinking, stop seeing faces flash before his eyes….

"Yer right, Hermione, 'course y'are," Hagrid sniffed, and Harry struggled to pull himself back into the present, reminded hideously of how often lately he'd concentrated in this same way to avoid being pulled into Voldemort's mind. "Yeh jus' don' know what it was like, see, watchin' him cast that horrible curse, seein' yeh jus' fall over like that, Harry. How did yeh do it, how did yeh survive?"

He couldn't breathe, so how was it he could still talk? "It's kind of a long story, actually. But I'm just tired now." Harry hoped that Hagrid would understand his need for sleep, understand that he really was sorry that Hagrid had seen all that and had to carry his body back. "You were great, Hagrid. Really great." His legs were trembling. The only thing keeping him upright was the guilt he knew he would feel at Hagrid's panic should he collapse in front of him.

"Nuthin' o' the sort!" Hagrid nearly bellowed, pulling Harry against him again. "'s you all that did it, you three, can't say I'm surprised…."

After Ron and Hermione had pried a gasping and panting Harry free a second time and promised to come visit if they had time, Hagrid was beaming again and mopping his eyes.

"Terrible day, innit, but a great day too, now You-Know-Who's gone. We won after all! An' now Snape's sure ter get the sack, and McGonagall—"

And suddenly Harry felt a chilly tingle sweep through his body, and he found he could control his ragged breathing a little. Remembering Snape's body, still lying in the Shrieking Shack, Harry knew he had one more thing to do before going to sleep.

"Hagrid," he interrupted. "Snape's dead. Voldemort killed him—or his snake did, anyway. In the Shrieking Shack."

"Snape? Dead?" Hagrid paused. "Why would he be in the Shrieking Shack? Runnin' away, was he? The coward!"

"No," Harry said. "No, he was called there on Voldemort's orders. It's complicated—but he was on our side until the end. Things would have been even worse at Hogwarts if he wasn't. Just… make sure he gets a proper burial."

"But that—Harry, he killed Dumbledore!" Hagrid looked about to burst into tears again.

"I know it's confusing, I'll explain it all to you later if you want—" Harry looked at him desperately. "But please, someone has to go get his body. We can't just leave him in there."

Perhaps the expression on Harry's face reflected his feelings well, because Hagrid finally stepped back and said, "Alrigh' then, if it's important ter yeh… 'course I'll do it, Harry. Now go get some rest, yeh look terrible!"

"Thanks," Harry sighed in relief. "Really, thanks a lot. I'll see you later, then."

"Take care you three. 'Bye," Hagrid replied gruffly, and they all waved and turned to continue up the corridor.

"By the way, Harry," Hermione nearly whispered. "What did you see in Snape's memories? That is what it was, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Harry wished she hadn't asked. Thinking of Snape now was horribly disorienting, but for a moment his mind was relieved to fixate on a single person rather than the dozens dead in the Great Hall. He had spent so many years hating and detesting the man, wishing him nothing but ill will. The Pensieve's narrative still felt convoluted as Harry sifted through the pieces in his own memory. He hadn't given it much thought immediately after witnessing it, being maximally distracted by the revelation that his death was a necessary element to Voldemort's downfall. What was Harry supposed to feel? No matter the greater point of it all, no matter that Snape's role had been one of the most difficult of all, Snape had still spent a considerable amount of energy making sure that Harry's time at Hogwarts was miserable. Even if Snape was ultimately looking out for Harry's well-being, he had a really foul way of showing it.

"He grew up with my mother," he said finally, wanting to keep it short. "He was the one who told her she was a witch; it looks like they were friends at Hogwarts."

"And his Patronus is really a doe?" asked Ron skeptically.

Harry nodded. "I think part of why Snape hated my dad is because he was jealous, since my dad ended up with my mum, but he really was into the Dark Arts, Snape, my mum got after him about it."

"'Course he was," Ron grumbled. "How d'you_ know_ he was on our side?"

"He overheard the prophecy, but when he told Voldemort and realized he was after my family, he told Dumbledore to protect my mum. Then he became Dumbledore's spy. He didn't really want to kill Dumbledore, but Dumbledore was dying anyway and wanted—"

"Dumbledore was dying?" Hermione whispered. "He seemed to be as lively as ever, except for that blackened hand, I suppose."

"Yeah… he was cursed by one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and I guess that it was irreversible. Anyway, Dumbledore had Snape kill him to make sure Voldemort would trust Snape so he could watch over Hogwarts and… and he also thought if he let Snape kill him, the Elder Wand wouldn't belong to anybody and wouldn't be as powerful."

"Oh," said Ron, and Harry could tell he had only half-followed his poor explanation. "He did all that 'cause he fancied your mum? Mental…."

"Yeah, a bit," Harry agreed, not really thinking about what he was saying.

"You'd think he'd be a bit more decent to her son, wouldn't you?" Ron muttered. "If you ask me he went a bit overboard with the act."

Harry didn't bother responding. Snape's interest in his mother seemed of little importance, nothing more than an interesting detail; she had been right to cut ties with a man fraternizing with the Dark Arts and Death Eaters. He had made his choice. He had chosen Voldemort. Just because Lily became a victim of the overheard prophecy did not mean that Snape would have felt any remorse had it been anyone else. He would not, Harry thought with anger, have cared whether it was the Longbottoms who were Voldemort's targets. In Harry's mind, Snape hadn't done enough to convince him that all of his good deeds weren't simply acts of selfishness and obsession.

They were within sight of the Fat Lady's portrait when an ice-cold flood swept through Harry's body, and for a moment he thought there might be some Dementors left over from the fight, hiding just out of sight—he shook violently with dread, he felt too weak to summon a Patronus again—but then he heard a familiar voice in his ear.

"Oh no, I'd heard you'd died! I was so excited." The cold sensation lifted and Harry stepped back to look at the pearly form of Moaning Myrtle, pouting at him in great disappointment. It seemed she had been pressing herself against him in an extremely uncomfortable embrace.

"I bet Voldemort and his Death Eaters were pretty put out, too," said Harry, and made to keep walking.

"I was just hoping, you know," she moped, "that if you had died, you'd remember how I said you could share my toilet with me."

"I reckon you'd think it was romantic, wouldn't you," Ron muttered. "Since you both would've got killed by Tom Riddle and all."

Myrtle shot Ron a sulky glare, but then turned back to Harry, her expression suddenly much more pleased. "Do you know anyone else who might have died? I saw in the Great Hall, there were loads of them, but I haven't seen any new ghosts around yet… it does get awfully lonely in that bathroom. Maybe they're hiding."

She was nearly giggling. Ron looked suddenly sicker than before.

"Oh yeah! Yeah, we know loads of people!" he cried, with voice and fists trembling. "I'll send them all your way, shall I? Why don't you just go ask my mum if she minds you marrying the ghost of my brother you miserable little skank!"

"Maybe I will!" Myrtle shrieked, and flew through Ron, turning at the end of the corridor.

"See you later, Harry." She batted her eyelashes at him.

"No, Myrtle—wait, don't—"

But she was gone.

"What'd you go telling her that for?" Hermione groaned sadly, but didn't go on—Ron was rubbing vigorously at his eyes and muttering between watery, drawn-out sniffs.

"She's just as bad as a Death Eater, stupid little—thanks Hermione." He took the handkerchief she'd dug out of her bag and wiped his face with it. "Being happy people died—! Can you believe that?" He swore under his breath.

"Just ignore her," Harry advised, taking Ron's arm again. Myrtle's visit seemed to have left him literally numb. "C'mon, lets—"

But as the Fat Lady came edging back into her portrait grudgingly, having been off watching the progress of things elsewhere in the castle, Harry remembered he did not have the password.

"Any chance of letting us through?" he asked desperately.

She looked down at the three of them, stern at first, then smiling.

"From all I've seen and heard this morning, you certainly don't belong in any house _but_ Gryffindor!" she said proudly, and swung open to let them through.

"Thanks," they all said fervently, though Ron's came out a little muffled by the handkerchief. They climbed into the common room, and it was like stepping into an alternate reality. It all looked almost exactly the same as Harry had left it at the end of his sixth year. Ron immediately headed for the boy's staircase, and Harry turned to Hermione, who gave him a small smile.

"Get some rest, Harry," she said, throwing her arms around him. "You were brilliant."

"No, you were," he said, and his voice cracked a little with exhaustion. "You and Ron… I couldn't have finished him if you hadn't destroyed the cup for me. If you hadn't…" his throat closed off, it was too difficult to think of how easily they might have been lying among the dead in the Great Hall. "I'm glad you're okay."

He could see she had more she wanted to say, but she shut her mouth and drew back, patting his shoulders, nodding. "Let's all get some rest while we can."

"Yeah," Harry said, trying to force a grin—his face felt stiff and heavy, like the rest of him. "I'll see you later." _Sensible girl__, Hermione_, he thought gratefully.

Ron was already in bed when Harry came up, and Harry was tempted not to bother changing, but his clothes were dirty and probably smelly after everything that had happened. He wrapped the Elder Wand in one of his Weasley sweaters at the bottom of his rucksack, placed his own beloved holly wand on his bedside table, and exerted one last bit of effort to get into his pajamas before crawling into bed. It felt wonderful. He had meant to have Kreacher bring him some sandwiches, but it could wait. The bed felt more comfortable than it ever had before, and as soon as his eyes closed, he felt himself sinking into blessed sleep.

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

Harry woke slowly from a dream in which someone had been talking to him in a familiar voice, but one he couldn't place. He lay with his eyes closed, focusing on the dream, trying to recall who it was, but slowly other thoughts began to crowd it out, memories of the night before came cascading like a landslide, the losses and moments of terror pummeling him so that a small noise escaped before he could hold it in. Next, he became aware of a sharp pain in his stomach, and then various other aches began to manifest. Needing to reassure himself of where he was, he rolled over and saw Ron sitting up in bed, watching him. The windows were dark. They must have slept all through the afternoon and into the night.

"What is it?" Harry asked, searching for his glasses. "Was I talking in my sleep again?" The voice in his dream brushed across his mind and he tried to grasp it, to remember who it had been….

"No," Ron said.

Harry sat up and took a closer look. He could tell Ron had something to say.

"What's the matter?"

Ron squirmed a little, fidgeting. "You don't… don't reckon Fred might… y'know."

"Might what?"

"He'd probably think it was funny, coming back as a ghost, right?"

Harry wondered if his stomach would ever stop aching. "I asked the same thing about… about Sirius when he died. Nick said most people don't decide to become ghosts because then they can never go on."

"Go on where?" Ron's face was screwed up miserably.

"I dunno exactly. But they've got to go somewhere, haven't they?" Harry looked at Ron. Harry had only gotten as far as recounting Voldemort casting _Avada Kedavra_, before they had reached Dumbledore's office and the story got interrupted. Ron was looking at him doubtfully now, and he wasn't sure he felt like explaining—it would probably sound stupid, and he was feeling too despondent himself to tell it appropriately.

"Yeah… I s'pose," Ron muttered, swallowing. "Should we go down to dinner then? What time is it, anyway?"

"Dunno. I'll just have Kreacher bring us something up here."

"Excellent." Ron flopped back onto his pillows.

Kreacher appeared the instant Harry called him, looking alert and attentive.

"Are the young masters hungry?" Kreacher asked eagerly.

"Starving," said Ron said at once.

"What shall Kreacher bring? Sweet treats, nice drinks, steamy meat pies?"

"How about some of everything that was for dinner?" Harry suggested.

Kreacher bowed low and disappeared with a crack.

"Where do you reckon the others are sleeping if they're not here?" Harry wondered.

"I heard McGonagall saying that students whose parents were staying the night could sleep with 'em, wherever they end up. Mum said she might stay—didn't think I'd sleep so long, I'd've gone with her…."

A moment later Kreacher returned bearing a tray full of steaming dishes, complete with glasses of pumpkin juice, bowls of ice cream and a bit of Treacle Tart just for Harry.

"You're a saint, Kreacher," Ron said through a mouthful of bread and soup.

"Yeah, thanks a lot," Harry said. Kreacher bowed again, so low the locket he wore hit the floor, and then he disappeared with a _crack_.

Harry's nauseous stomach battled with his desire to eat until finally he forced himself to take a few spoonfuls of soup, and then proceeded slowly through the rest of the meal. By the time they were done, the sky was getting a little lighter, but Harry felt too emotionally drained to get up. Instead, noticing a board lying abandoned by one of the beds, he asked Ron if he felt up to a game of chess. Ron agreed, but it was clear his heart was not in it—Harry managed to beat him for the first time he could remember.

"Another round?" Harry suggested.

"Maybe not." Ron got to his feet. "Mum might be wondering where I am."

"You think she's awake?" Harry asked. "Wait, I'll come with you." He hurried back to his bed to change his clothes, and together they went down into the common room, which was empty.

"Hermione must still be sleeping," Ron mumbled, looking briefly toward the girl's staircase before heading out the portrait hole.

The castle was very silent, and the Great Hall looked gloomy and surreal without the light of the floating candles when they peeked inside. The bodies of the fallen had all been moved—Harry was glad, but wondered where they had gone.

Ron looked worried. "Do you think they all went back without me?"

"Dunno," Harry said. "I don't think so. They might be sleeping somewhere else in the castle."

They moved along, and Harry felt, for a moment, almost like he was a young student again, out of bed after hours, expecting Filch to swoop down on him. But Filch most likely had bigger things to worry about, like the caved-in corridors on the lower floors. They walked aimlessly without speaking for a while, until Ron said, "Maybe they're all sleeping in an empty classroom or something."

So they started trying doors, but they had gone through over two dozen before they saw anything of note. Ron immediately backed away after opening the last one, and Harry saw why—bodies were laid in rows with their arms at their sides like toy soldiers. He saw the unmistakable face and hair of Bellatrix Lestrange, among others. A draft of cold air came from the room and made the hair on his neck stand up—he closed the door without searching the faces.

"They must be keeping everyone from the other side in here," Harry said. "I expect they've set some sort of charm to keep the room cold until they're buried."

"Buried?" Ron's voice had shot high. "_Them_? You think they deserve some kind of funeral?"

"Of course I don't…." Harry said. He wondered if Voldemort's body had been moved here as well, or if it was still in the chamber off the Great Hall.

Ron was staring at him, waiting for more.

"What would you do with them?" Harry asked him.

Ron grumbled something that sounded like "chuck 'em to Buckbeak" but Harry couldn't be sure, as Ron was walking away when he said it.

They didn't speak of the bodies again, but wandered around making feeble conversation about how long it might take to fix up the castle. As the sun broke over the trees they ran into Ginny, who had come to try and find them and bring them to the rest of the family. There Harry learned that after he and Ron had gone to sleep, the families of the dead and injured had arrived to identify their loved ones and, if possible, had taken them away. Fred's body had been moved somewhere closer to the Burrow, and Lupin and Tonks had been taken by some members of the Order to be buried near where Tonks's mother lived.

"It's better this way, dear," said Mrs. Weasley when Harry expressed his guilt at not being there for the burial. "Poor dear, she's in no fit state to worry about a thing like that, she's l-lost everything except little Teddy. We've agreed it's better if we all just… just pay our respects separately when we can."

By the end of the day, Harry barely knew or remembered how it had been spent. It was all just a dull impression of shaking people's hands, answering questions, and joining parties of workers who levitated crumbled bits of wall and ceiling to clear the blocked corridors, hoping they wouldn't find more dead bodies under the rubble. The strongest memories of the day were simply the company of people—the people who, by some wonderful bit of luck, were still alive—and the constant struggle against the urge to curl up and cry.

Neville, Luna, the Weasleys, the teachers, even people like Ernie MacMillan, he was glad to see them all, and it felt wonderful to be able to thank them for risking their lives, though really Harry felt like thanking them simply for surviving, for not adding to the weight of the dead in his chest. It pressed down especially hard that night as if someone heavy were sitting on him, and more than once he woke out of his fitful sleep expecting a heavy stone to shift away when he rolled over, the echoes of the explosion that killed Fred still sounding in his ears. Or else it was magical ropes, or Nagini, squeezing him….

It was a relief to wake and go down to breakfast.

"Harry..." Hermione looked at him over her toast and marmalade.

He broke out of his thoughts. "Hm? What is it?"

Ron stopped slurping his pumpkin juice to pay attention.

"Well, I was wondering about the... the Elder Wand."

"Oh..." Harry chewed slowly. "Er... you want to know if I've returned it yet?" He had been enjoying the illusion of having no daunting tasks particularly assigned to him now, focusing only on being with others and rebuilding.

"Yes. I'm not... I'm not trying to rush you or anything like that, I mean I know you intend to put it back—" She suddenly looked embarrassed and stuffed her mouth with the remains of her toast, then began drinking from her goblet.

"Blimey, Hermione, give Harry a chance. It's only been two days," Ron said.

Harry stared into his reflection on the golden breakfast plate. He didn't want to admit it, but he was a little bit intimidated to open Dumbledore's tomb, especially since it had already been defiled once. He didn't feel right asking anyone else to do this though, and part of him trusted only himself to handle the Wand.

"You're right, Hermione," he finally said. "I'll go do it now."

Harry got up and cast one eye over the long tables. He knew Ginny had gone with the Patil twins and Luna to visit Lavender Brown in the recently reconstructed hospital wing, who was still recovering from her run-in with Fenrir Greyback. Part of him wished that Ginny could join him as he returned the wand, and then perhaps they could continue the walk for a while; they hadn't had a good moment alone yet. The rest of him thought it was best to do this task by himself, so with heavy feet, he headed toward Gryffindor tower.

"Potter!"

Harry turned to see Professor McGonagall approaching him.

"Hey, Professor."

"Harry, how are you doing?" She looked at him pleasantly, and seemed to have inherited Dumbledore's twinkling eyes along with the position of Headmistress. He noticed that whenever she looked at him now, she seemed to swell with pride.

"I'm... I'm alright." He swallowed.

"I know I've said this already, Harry, but if you need to talk to anyone, my office..." She paused and Harry knew they were both thinking it still felt more appropriate to refer to it as Dumbledore's. "My office is always open to you. I imagine that school is the last thing you're thinking about right now, but if you need any advisement about how to continue your education, please come to see me."

"Thanks, Professor—Headmistress."

"Of course, you can always just come by for a biscuit."

"Thanks. I'll do that."

McGonagall squeezed his shoulder and headed toward the Great Hall as Harry continued up a stairway.

He could barely think of his future. For years he had been prepared for the possibility of having no future at all, and especially this past year, his life had been consumed by the hunt for Horcruxes and destruction of Voldemort. His old aspiration of becoming an Auror seemed hazy and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to spend the rest of his life hunting dark wizards. Now that he knew firsthand what kind of life it was, it didn't seem like what he wanted. Not only that but he had missed his seventh year of school and had no N.E.W.T.s. While he thought that destroying the most nefarious wizard in living memory had to count for at least an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, there was no getting around the fact that he still lacked experience in his other subjects, especially Potions after his fortunate but ultimately unhelpful year's direction from the Half-Blood Prince. Another painful twang of confusion vibrated through his ribcage at the thought.

Harry crossed the empty common room and went to the boys' dormitory. Opening his rucksack, he dug amongst his remaining earthly possessions—the invisibility cloak, the empty snitch—and pulled out the Elder Wand from the sweater. This was the first time he had really looked at it properly. This wand, the "Deathstick," had saved his life. He had no particular fondness for it, especially after seeing it wielded by Voldemort, but it was still strange to think that if things had been different, if Voldemort really had been the possessor of the wand, their shared blood or whatever it was that Dumbledore had said protected him may not have been enough to stand against the unbeatable Wand of Destiny.

Hiding the wand in his inner robe pocket, Harry left the common room. Students, teachers, and parents were leaving breakfast and dispersing throughout the castle to continue with repairs or help with any of the other chores that had popped up since the battle, such as recasting damaged charms or herding nifflers which had hidden in small packs throughout the castle back toward the forest.

"Hey, Harry."

"How's it goin', Harry?"

Harry briefly waved or nodded as people sent greetings his way. Finally he was at the front doors and descended the stone steps. The sky was overcast and there was a slight breeze as he made his way toward the white marble tomb where the former Headmaster lay. He noticed Professor Flitwick and a group of Ravenclaws and their parents levitating stones and shingles back into their previous positions. There was no doubt that things were coming along. Hogwarts still looked like it had seen better days but at least it was no longer obvious that a giant had punched a gaping hole in the 7th floor corridor.

Before he knew it, he was by the side of the tomb. Harry fingered the wand nervously. The knot in his stomach that had begun with his earlier thoughts of Snape was back and tighter than ever as his thoughts strayed unbidden to what he might find upon opening the tomb. He knew that Voldemort had removed the purple cloth wrapping when he had taken the wand, but Harry couldn't recall the state of the body. Would there be nothing left but a bearded and bespectacled skeleton? It had been a year after all. Or would it be, even worse, something half rotten? But surely he would remember if it had been like this, he had seen Voldemort take the wand after all.

No... even if it was perfectly preserved, Harry didn't think he could stand the sight of the man he had loved so much laying there cold and empty. He had seen too many dead bodies this week, more than he had ever seen in his life, more than he hoped to cumulatively ever see again. Lupin, Tonks, Fred... He didn't want to think about this right now.

He put the wand back in his robe. What was the rush? He wasn't leaving Hogwarts yet. He'd do it before he left... er... for where ever it was he would go next. Whenever he left, he would be in a better state of mind for this kind of thing.

Harry pushed the doors to the castle open upon returning and walked into a protruding belly.

"Harry, m'boy! Gone for a walk, have you?" came the voice of Horace Slughorn.

Harry made a noncommittal noise and shrugged halfheartedly.

"Care to accompany me to the greenhouses? I've got to pick a leaf of Poko Poloxi for Madam Pomfrey's brew of Grief Relief. We're really flying through it."

Thinking that Slughorn looked much too cheerful while sharing this tidbit, but nevertheless being grateful for a distraction from his thoughts, Harry uttered a "sure."

"I missed having you in my class this year, Harry. No one else quite like you, I must say. But of course, I look forward to having you next year! Between you and me, I think the Headmistress is looking to write this last school year off as irretrievably corrupted, so everyone would be redoing the year, not just you. And I would love to have the pleasure of having your inspiring intuition back in my classroom!" Slughorn chortled.

"Professor, the truth is, I—"

"But Harry! You don't mean to tell me that you aren't coming back? There's nothing for it, you have to have N.E.W.T.s if you want to succeed, and you do want to succeed, don't you? You may have done away with You-Know-Who singlehandedly but if you can't transfigure a turnip or—"

"No, that's not—!"

"But Harry! I would have expected better of you. Such a promising potioneer."

"I cheated!" Harry finally exclaimed while Slughorn was busy tut-tuting.

Slughorn caught his rotund self after a nasty jerk. "Ch-cheated?" he spluttered, blinking rapidly. "But don't be modest, you can't have. I was watching you all the time!"

"It was the book. I never returned the one I borrowed. The one I gave back was a different one."

The Potions Master stared uncomprehendingly. "The book?"

"It was annotated by the previous owner. It...every potion had several alterations and hints at how to make it more easily."

"I... I can't recall ever having a student who excelled to that degree," Slughorn said weakly, looking desperately hopeful that Harry would tell him he was just joking.

"Well... you did. I can't tell you who it was, they used a nickname." Harry stared at his feet. They had stopped walking so Harry started toward the greenhouses once again.

"Bring me that book won't you? Then we can clear this up. I'm sure it's not as serious as you think, a hint here or there never hurt anyone." He put a hand on Harry's shoulder as he pushed open the door of Greenhouse Two.

"I don't have it anymore."

"Don't have it?" Slughorn grunted.

"No." Harry thought with a pang about what a waste it was that it was gone, not only because it was so useful but also because it was probably the only possession of Snape's he would ever have owned.

"Well what happened to it, boy? Something like that!"

"Burned it."

Slughorn grumbled and grumped as he plucked a few red leaves from the Poko Poloxi which purred at his touch. He seemed to have finally accepted that his star pupil's talent at potionmaking was in question.

"Well I still want to see you in my class next year," he muttered.

Harry didn't really know what to say to that, not wanting to commit right away to coming back, though it seemed very likely as there was no realistic alternative at this point.

"Hey Professor, I just remembered something I have to do," he said and slipped out at a brisk pace. He wanted to go hide away with his friends, maybe play some chess or Quidditch, pretend for even only an hour that things were normal even though nothing could be farther from the truth.

When he came back into the Great Hall, it was much emptier but he was relieved to see Ron, Hermione, and Ginny in a huddle talking with Neville and his stern-looking grandmother.

"Hey," he said as he popped into the group.

"Well! Hello, Mr. Potter," Neville's grandmother said. "You keeping well?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Where were you, Harry? Poor Lavender, her and Bill now look like a right pair," Ginny sighed and folded her arms around herself as though she were cold.

Harry noticed Ron and Hermione were looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "I was just taking a walk... and then I ran into Slughorn who wanted a word. Lavender's getting better though, is she?"

"Well, she'll live." But he saw that Ginny smiled despite herself. "Ron, you should really go visit her. She is your old girlfriend after all."

"Oh... right. Maybe." He didn't look too excited at this prospect.

"Well she's at least your _friend_, isn't she?"

"Yeah. You're right. I'll see her sometime today."

"How about now? You lot can go see her together. She really loves getting visitors. Come on Harry." Ginny grabbed his hand and led him out of the Great Hall, leaving the others to make their way toward the Hospital Wing.

He and Ginny kicked around the hallways for a few minutes before she finally spoke up. "Harry," she said, looking at the floor, "have you talked to Mum lately?"

"Yeah, I talked to her this morning."

Ginny sighed. "She looks awful, doesn't she?"

While many of them had been having their grief interrupted by moments of relief or even relative cheerfulness, Mrs. Weasley was in a continuous state of upset. It seemed that her eyes hadn't dried once since learning of Fred's death. The other Weasleys were dealing with the tragedy in different ways, the most noticeable theme being trying to keep life moving in a positive direction. George seemed to have a shadow across his face even when trying to joke, and it was still jarring to see him on his own.

Harry could tell Ginny was expecting a reply. "Well, she... she's looked better, yeah."

"Did she tell you? Her and Dad decided to have the funeral on Saturday."

"Er... no. She didn't. Is it going to be here?"

"No. Our family has been buried in a wizarding cemetery in Plymtree for several generations, so we're going to do it there. That's southwest of Bristol."

"Hmm. Who's all going?"

"Well, besides our family and you guys, George has invited their friends. I think that Mum and Dad wanted it to be small but there's no way. Fred was so popular and friendly, he wouldn't want it like that. All of Dumbledore's Army and the Order will probably show up, and who knows who else? George says the more who come, the better."

Harry sighed and looked out the window. It was sprinkling now. He thought of Tonks and Lupin's hasty, lonely burial. Tonks's mother had lost her husband and daughter in such rapid succession. At least she had Teddy. Godfather though Harry may be, he knew it was a much better arrangement right now for them to be together.

"Thanks for letting me know."

"What are you doing this summer? You don't have to return to those muggles now, so you're going to come straight to us, right?"

"Yeah. I don't have anywhere else to go really, do I? And besides, it's... it'll be nice to be there for a while."

"What about Hermione?"

"Well, she'll be wanting to go retrieve her parents from Australia."

Ginny stared. "Australia? Wh..."

"Why don't you ask her?"

"Okay, I will. Are you alright, Harry? Everything'll be okay now. Things can only get better from now on."

Ginny's reassuring smile gave him an immediate dose of strength. He squeezed her hand and knew it was true. Things were difficult now in the immediate aftermath, but this would eventually be little more than a bad memory. Ron and Hermione had survived, Ginny was still there for him, and many of his other friends had managed to pull through the fight as well. Repeating these thoughts to himself over the last few days had kept him going, sustaining him like sparks of warmth. Best of all, Voldemort was gone. Harry could live a normal life. He wouldn't have to constantly worry for the safety of everyone he loved. He wouldn't have to feel as though simply knowing them put them in grave danger.

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

A sharp knock on the hut door made Harry jump from his seat, spilling half a large mug of Hagrid's best nettle tea all over his lap. He only just stopped the mug from rolling off and crashing onto the ground.

"Ow—sorry, Hagrid."

"Sit down, don' worry about it," Hagrid chuckled. A huge flowery napkin was thrown under the table. "Jus' mop up the spill while I go answer the door, will yeh? Alright, who is it?"

Harry had come to visit Hagrid on his own today—Ron had been called aside by Mrs. Weasley to discuss funeral arrangements, and Hermione had needed to talk to Professor Flitwick about how to safely remove memory charms. Hagrid had been telling Harry about his days hiding up in the hills after Snape had taken over, then had fallen to reminiscing about their trips into the forest throughout the years, discussing Grawp's progress in becoming civilized and also how the Centaurs were friendlier all of a sudden. Harry was glad to just listen and sip the warm tea.

"Professor McGonagall! What a pleasure! Come in, have some tea!"

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said politely. "But perhaps another time. I thought I might find you here, Harry. Did you not hear that a delegation from the Ministry was coming today?"

Harry bumped his head in his haste to get out from under the table. "Um, yes, Professor" he said, wincing. "I just…didn't think it had anything to do with me. It doesn't, does it?" he added anxiously.

"Well, your presence is requested, if not required. I think our new Minister wanted your opinion on what to do with Professor Snape's body, after what we all heard you say the other day."

Of course—Harry had revealed Snape's betrayal of Voldemort in front of the entire school, more or less. "He wants my opinion?"

"Of course. I daresay that you'll find Kingsley Shacklebolt to be a much friendlier Minister toward you than either Scrimgeour or Fudge were."

"Oh yeah. So he's Minister for good now?" Harry found himself grinning a little at that. The thought of a Minister that wasn't set on slandering him or else using him as some kind of puppet was very cheering indeed.

"Yes, he is." McGonagall raised her eyebrows at him. "Have you not been keeping up with the news at all?"

"I've sort of been cut off from the wizarding world this past year," Harry said. "I'm sure I can get someone to lend me their copies of the Daily Prophet, though."

"I reckon I better be doin' that too, now I think on it," Hagrid commented, wringing out the napkin he'd retrieved from under the table. "It'll be good ter read some good news fer once."

"Shall we go then, Harry?" McGonagall asked, a smile dancing on the edges of her thin lips.

Moments later, they approached the delegation inside the entrance hall.

"Mr. Potter," said Kingsley's deep, calming voice as he shook Harry's hand. "You're well, I take it?"

"Well enough, Minister," Harry said, and another brief grin found its way onto his face. "How are things at the Ministry?"

"Let's just say… there's a lot of cleaning up to do." Kingsley glanced over the cracked flagstones of the entrance hall. "I had a question for you."

"About what to do with Snape's body?" Harry asked. "I think it should be buried properly."

"Are you sure about that?" Kingsley asked seriously. "He did kill Professor Dumbledore after all. That much convinced all the rest of us—" Harry knew he referred to the rest of the Order of the Phoenix "—that he was working for the other side all along."

"I'm positive," Harry said firmly. "Before Snape died, he gave me some of his memories to put into Dumbledore's Pensieve. Dumbledore planned for Snape to kill him—he was dying anyway because of a curse, and otherwise Draco Malfoy would've had to do it."

"Draco Malfoy and his parents are being put on trial," Kingsley said. "I expect they'll be sent to Azkaban. You say Dumbledore meant for Snape to kill him?" Harry could hear the subtle tones of shock in his voice.

"I'm sure of it, sir," said Harry. "The memory's probably still in the Pensieve if Professor McGonagall would let you go to her office to look at it."

It felt a little strange, offering Snape's personal and private memories for other people to see, but if it meant giving Snape a fair chance at redemption, it was worth it. Cruel as he had been to Harry, Harry didn't want to be the only one who knew of the indispensible part he'd played in the end. Once they had seen it, Kingsley and McGonagall could decide for themselves whether Snape was truly good or not.

"Well then," said Kingsley, turning to McGonagall, who nodded. "I may have more questions for you when I come back."

"I'll answer any that I can," Harry said simply, and watched them walk away after Kingsley had given orders to the other Ministry officials to go and retrieve the bodies of the enemy forces from the empty classroom.

Harry caught himself looking, illogically, into the crowd on the off-chance that Tonks would be among them as an Auror. Then he felt the jolt of reality again. Tonks would never be someone he could just run into again, never someone who would just turn up and surprise him with her shocking pink hair, or wearing some new appearance he'd not yet seen. If the Order of the Phoenix were to meet, then her place and Lupin's beside her would always be empty. It was amazing that he could forget for even a split second.

Trying to ignore the emptiness, he went into the Great Hall and looked for the Weasleys. They weren't there, so he drifted toward Luna when he spotted her reading an issue of the Quibbler.

"Hello, Luna," he said, to announce his presence, and she looked up at him with her dreamy, unblinking stare.

"Oh… hello, Harry. Daddy's editing his paper again." She lifted the issue for him to see. "It's very short, because he's still not feeling very well, but he says it makes him feel better to write. You look happier today."

"I suppose I am feeling a bit better," Harry said, gazing down at the headline. "_Azkaban Prisoners Subject to Horrifying Experiment__s? _That's not exactly good news, is it?" He didn't believe it, especially since the Dementors weren't likely to be returning to Azkaban now that they had proven impossible to control in a crisis.

"We've got to keep our eyes peeled, haven't we?" Luna asked, her own eyes seeming unnaturally wide above her solemn look. "Sometimes good news is like a lot of Wrackspurts. It gets in your ears and makes you forget things you should be thinking about. Then other things can sneak up on you…."

Harry thought this was all a bit more ominous than Luna's usual unsettling comments, but settled for saying, "I'm glad your dad's okay. He was really worried about you, you know, we went to visit him. We didn't mean to make things worse for him."

"I know," Luna said simply, and her usual vague smile crept across her face. "I'm still your friend, and Daddy doesn't mind you coming now that we're both safe. You can drop by for dinner sometime this summer if you like."

"Er… thanks, Luna," Harry said, remembering his experience with her dad's Gurdyroot tea.

"You're welcome," she said brightly, and went back to reading the paper.

Kingsley came back after a while and nodded to Harry, who met him halfway across the hall.

"Well, Harry, I can't say I understood everything, but it seems none of us really knew the man at all."

"I know what you mean."

"It is possible for memories to be falsified but I'm fairly certain these are authentic. I will strive to clear Severus Snape's name of the more serious charges if nothing else. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. Now, if you will all come with me," he turned to the other Ministry officials behind him. "We're going to remove the last body."

They moved toward the room off the Great Hall where Harry knew Voldemort's body lay. Driven by some sort of twisted curiosity, Harry followed them. He had seen Voldemort's body, of course, seen it moments after the life had left it, but the reality of his death still seemed too good to be true. The threat of Voldemort had hung over him since the day of his birth, had followed him through every year at Hogwarts, and now he wanted to reassure himself, as irrational as he knew any fear was.

The room was dark and the same cold gust of air came out as from the room full of dead Death Eaters. Kingsley lit the candles along the wall with a flick of his wand and advanced with a few others. Harry waited by the door for them to lift the lifeless lump on the floor and bring it out. He saw Voldemort's hands as the first visible bit of flesh, those awful white, spider-like hands that had touched his face in the graveyard, had lifted a wand to kill or torture so many times. Harry felt an unexpected shudder rack his entire body and took a step back before stopping himself. He would not be afraid of a dead body! Then was Voldemort's face, harmless now, frozen in a slight expression of shock even with his eyes closed.

A horrible nauseated feeling slammed through Harry, as if his insides were trying to force their way out of him, and he broke out in a cold sweat, barely registering Kingsley's words.

"We'll be taking this to the Ministry for protection until a decision is reached on how to best dispose of it. We don't want any followers in hiding getting hold of it…."

There was a rushing sound in his ears, and Harry wrenched his gaze away from the body he could barely believe was lifeless. He left the Great Hall, and didn't stop walking until he found an empty classroom in which to gather himself.

What was going on? What was wrong with him? He put a hand to his head out of habit, but his scar was fine, his head was fine, and he blew out a great shaking sigh, knowing it had only been a momentary reaction, a residual surge of hatred for the man who had ruined his life, and the lives of so many others.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading, please review!


	2. With the Weasleys

**Chapter Two - With the Weasleys**

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

The day of the funeral was suddenly very close. One morning at breakfast, Harry nearly choked on his eggs as Mrs. Weasley gave him a tight hug from behind.

"All packed, Harry dear?" she asked.

"Er, packed?" he asked once he had swallowed. Ron looked guilty.

"Oh yeah, didn't I tell you? We're going home today, mum wants some help getting the house in order, you know, since we have some relatives visiting..."

"Of course, _you_ needn't worry about helping," Mrs. Weasley said immediately. "You've already done quite enough."

"No, I'd like to help," Harry said, and she gave him a watery smile, patting him on the back.

"Well, we'll be leaving about noon so make sure you have all your things together."

"Alright."

With all that needed to be done in the wake of Voldemort's attack on Hogwarts, Harry had found it easy to lose track of time. It seemed to take an age for each day to end, but now it had been nearly a week since it all happened, which seemed unbelievable. He turned to Ron.

"Do you think she's expecting us to stay the rest of the summer?"

"I dunno, I told her we should probably come back here to help with everything, but there might not be that much left to do after all…."

Harry felt an unexpected stab of nerves, even when Ginny sat beside him and took his hand under the table. The Weasleys were the closest thing to family he had left; it was only right that he be with them while they mourned Fred together. And it would be nice to escape from Hogwarts and the masses of people who seemed intent on constantly congratulating him. He knew that being at the Burrow might give him the time and space he needed to truly face the losses without being watched by every eye, but at the same time, the prospect of staying all summer in a place where Fred's absence would be so keenly felt….

Immediately after breakfast, Harry got all his things together. It wasn't hard; he had, after all, been traveling light for nearly a year, and the bulk of his stuff was still at the Dursley's. With a guilty pang, he checked again to make sure the Elder Wand was safely packed, telling himself he would put it back at the next opportunity. Then with a last fond glance at his old four-poster, he went to go meet Hermione and Ron in the common room so they could go down to the entrance hall together.

"Leaving, Harry?" Neville asked. "I saw Ron's mum talking to you at breakfast."

"Oh, yeah," Harry said, looking at Neville and Dean and Seamus as well, who had turned from their conversation to watch. "I might be back soon, though."

"We'll look forward to it," Neville said proudly. "Are you repeating seventh year then? Like the rest of us?"

"I dunno yet, I haven't decided," Harry admitted. He felt he should thank Neville again for killing the snake, for being so amazing during the fight, but he thought it might be a bit redundant by now, so he just said, "I better run. Take care, guys, okay? See you later."

"See you."

"See you later, Harry!"

"Yeah, come back soon!"

He climbed out of the portrait hole, Ron and Hermione silently following. As they made their way down toward the entrance hall, Harry found himself wondering where Luna was. He would have liked to say goodbye to her too. Some part of him—quickly silenced—whispered that she too, could just as easily die before the next time he saw her. He told himself that was nonsense, impossible in this new, Voldemort-less world.

Ginny was already packed and waiting in the entrance hall with her mother, George, and Percy, who had stayed at Hogwarts since the battle to help clean up. He tried to return Ginny's greeting smile but was interrupted by Mrs. Weasley rushing closer to exclaim over their scanty belongings.

"Is this really all you've had packed? How did you ever survive the winter, camping out all over the country?" Now that the worst was over she seemed to want to voice all the worry she must have felt since they'd left the Burrow last year. "It's a wonder none of you got sick!"

"Mum, Hermione's bag—" Ron tried to say, but she wasn't listening.

"Well we'd better be off then, perhaps after we settle in I can give both you boys a haircut—Ron, you're starting to look like Bill!"

By the look on Ron's face, he seemed to take this as a compliment. They marched down the steps onto the grounds and began their quiet walk toward Hogsmeade, and Harry glanced over his shoulder a few times at the broken castle, hoping he would see it again soon, if only to return the wand to its rightful place.

Soon enough they were beyond the boundaries of the school, and a few moments later Harry was looking at the Burrow, realizing that the last time he had stood on this property was at Bill and Fleur's wedding, moments after the ministry had fallen and Death Eaters had scattered the panicking guests….

He tried to dispel the prickling on his skin by thinking further back to the many happy memories he'd had here. They made their way inside, and Mrs. Weasley shut the door with a loud groan.

"Of course, leave the house to Arthur and Charlie—you would think with only two of them here—but it's an absolute disaster—!"

The house was indeed looking a bit messier than normal, but all in all Harry didn't think it was too bad. After leaving Hogwarts, where some corridors were still impassable due to the ceiling falling in, it was hard to think of the Burrow as a disaster in any sense. A mingled sense of relief and sadness moved through him like an unsteadying gust of wind. Here, at least, was one place left undamaged. But it was only the building that remained untouched. The people that lived here had seen their share of harm. More than their share, Harry thought.

"Well hurry up and put your things away, we'll need to get the kitchen tidied before we can even start on making lunch!"

They hurried up to their rooms. Since none of them had been staying at Hogwarts before the battle, there were no heavy trunks to pull up the stairs, and Harry only got one quick glimpse at Ron's familiar room before he'd tossed his bag in a corner and headed back down into the kitchen. Ginny was already there, as was Percy.

"Where's George?" Ron asked, once Hermione had joined them.

"In his room I suppose," Mrs. Weasley said with a worried look. "I'm sure he'll be along. Now, let's see—Ron, you get that mess off the table; Percy, find some way to organize the shoes and coats over there, it's getting quite out of hand—Ginny—"

Harry had to ask a couple of times to be given something to do before Mrs. Weasley allowed him to start cleaning and cutting potatoes. He had never really learned any household spells but soon found that with a little coaching from Hermione, he could get most of the dirt off with a scouring charm, though this did not remove the eyes.

It was only once they'd sat down to lunch that George finally showed up, wearing a very old set of velvety purple and black dress robes that stank of mothballs. He swept into the room with his hands together under his sleeves, a painfully solemn and haughty look about him. Everyone paused with their forks hovering, staring as he took his seat.

He cleared his throat emphatically. "Well?"

Ginny stifled a snigger in her hand. Mrs. Weasley looked quite shocked.

"George, dear, where did you _get_ those?"

"Mother," he said, in an excellent imitation of Percy at his worst, "I think I've finally realized the solemnity of this most gloomy occasion, and I thought it only fitting to dress accordingly. I've also decided that, since I have already taken the first step toward holiness, I shall put my irresponsible ways behind—"

At this there was a general outcry from around the table. Ginny burst into giggles, Ron gaped and said "put them behind you? You're _joking_", and most shocking of all, Mrs. Weasley jumped to her feet.

"George Weasley, you go straight back upstairs and put on some normal clothes!" She looked horrified, and Harry thought to himself that the idea of a solemn George who had put his "irresponsible ways" behind him was too tragic to contemplate.

"But mother," George said, clicking his tongue. "I have my reputation to think about now, you know! After all, I can't have people thinking I'm not properly in despair like I should be—"

"Oh George," Mrs. Weasley wailed, making to reach over the table and hug him, but nearly knocking over the juice jug as she did so. "Don't even joke—no one could possibly think—oh just… go change your clothes!" She fussed over the bit of juice that had spilled on the tablecloth, and George gave a somber bow and swept from the room, winking at Harry and Ron, who doubled up with laughter.

A minute later he was back in his normal clothes and Mrs. Weasley took her chance to kiss him on the cheek.

"If Charlie's staying with us," Ginny asked once they were almost done eating, "Are Bill and Fleur coming too?"

"Oh, they'll just be in and out," Mrs. Weasley said vaguely. "They didn't want to overcrowd us, they said—nonsense—been very helpful…."

"This meal is excellent, mother," Percy announced. "I'd quite forgotten how wonderful a cook you are."

"Oh, thank you Percy, dear." She suddenly lunged for another napkin to dab her eyes with, and blew her nose as well.

"How about we play some Quidditch, eh George?" Ron asked tentatively. "Er, once we've done cleaning."

George looked up from his potatoes. "We could play three-a-side so long as Ginny and Percy and Hermione are on a team," he said with a shadow of a smirk. "Then you can join me and Harry in creaming them, Ron. Unless Perce secretly learned to fly while working for the ministry."

"That's hardly fair!" Ginny protested.

Percy seemed torn, and glanced at his mother for some indication, but Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Oh go on then, you can all play a round or two after lunch…."

"Perhaps it ought to just be two-a-side," Percy suggested. "Ginny and I can get a start on the living room—"

Ginny made a noise of objection, but Hermione cut in. "No, Ginny can play; I'd rather help out with chores."

"We don't have to play after lunch, mum," George said. "Not sure we're all up for Quidditch after all."

"No, no, you all need some fresh air and time together." And Mrs. Weasley continued to insist they play Quidditch until she was practically shoving them out the door.

With Ginny and Ron on one team, and Harry and George on another, the match was fairly close; it seemed most of George's Quidditch talent was not of the sort that made an excellent Keeper. Either that, or he was just not feeling his most competitive. At one point, George let out a startling laugh when Ron missed blocking his goal by a mile because he had mistaken a passing butterfly for the worn-out Quaffle they were using. He kept laughing for longer than anyone expected, and they all found themselves laughing too. To Harry, this felt wonderful, but ultimately strange. It really was funny, he really was laughing—life was almost normal, but for the absence of Fred, and the constant heaviness which hovered in the background, never lifting, even at moments like this.

When Ron got hit in the face by another shot, George called out "That butterfly was pretty vicious, eh Ronnykins?" After the first game was over (won by Harry and George) they all hovered for a moment, wondering aloud whether they should do another. Finally they all voted in favor, and spent another hour in a close game that finally ended when George purposely let in a goal to break the tie.

"That was a close one, eh?" George mused as they walked back toward the broom shed. Harry was much more exhausted than he should have been, and had a momentary feeling as if the others walking along were part of a rather slow but ultimately meaningful television show he was watching. He wondered—did the others feel the same?

"You let it in!" Ginny insisted. "You flew in the other direction!"

"Well it was moving so slowly I thought it was another butterfly!" said George.

"See? Not so easy, when they're both red—" Ron muttered.

"Don't be stupid, Ron, he knows it wasn't a butterfly," Ginny sniffed. "He's just saying I throw like a girl!"

"Well, you are a girl," George said. "Unless you and Harry are keeping a big secret, but then I reckon mum would never allow that, she already throws a fit about Bill having long hair…."

When they all came inside, still laughing a little, Harry was shocked to see that the kitchen table had several people sitting at it, with a couple of large bouquets of flowers in the middle. He thought he recognized one of the guests as being from the ministry, and three from Bill's wedding. There were two others still he had never seen in his life. Ron's Aunt Muriel was arguing with Mrs. Weasley at the front door.

"Nonsense, Molly, I'm sure the last thing you want to be worrying about is organizing all of this. I've been to a good many funerals in my time, I know how things are meant to—"

"We're all going to decide as a family how things are going to go," said Mrs. Weasley, a little red in the face. "Now please sit down with the others and I'll get you a cup of tea."

A few of the wizards at the table had just finished off their tea in a hasty way, and were rising. "We don't want to be a nuisance, Molly, but if there's anything we can do—" one of them began.

"Oh no, no, you've done quite enough already," said Mrs. Weasley tearfully.

Several of them got up and hugged Mrs. Weasley or shook her hand before leaving. Soon the only ones left were one of the visiting witches and Aunt Muriel, who hurried off upstairs, perhaps eager to shape the house into her idea of order.

"Let me stay and help with dinner, Molly," the dark-skinned witch asked. "It's the least I can do!"

"Well alright then," Mrs. Weasley said. "Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."

"You're Angelina's mother?" George suddenly burst out.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Johnson said, suddenly rising and embracing George as if he were her own son. "Angelina's told me all about you and Fred."

"Where is Angelina?" asked George, and Angelina came out of the bathroom with an uncertain look on her face.

"Hi George," she said, grinning a little, and Mrs. Johnson let go of George so that he and Angelina could greet each other.

Mrs. Weasley quickly said, "Harry, Ron, Ginny, you three should go join Hermione and Percy in the front, they've been weeding..."

As he shut the door behind them, Harry heard Mrs. Weasley calling Aunt Muriel back downstairs, saying that she needed someone to run to the store for dinner. Immediately he wished he were back inside, for Percy was walking quickly away from where Hermione was pulling the last weeds, rubbing his face with one hand. Ginny ran to him, but Harry and Ron gravitated toward Hermione.

"How was Quidditch?" she asked, her eyes wandering to a point beyond Harry's shoulder from whence soft choking noises were coming.

"It was fine," said Ron, shooting Harry a warning look to ward off mention of butterflies. "What's wrong with Percy?"

"_What's wrong with him_?" Hermione gaped. "Ron, Fred—"

"Right," Ron blurted hurriedly, turning red. "I know. I just meant, well, if something set it off…."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Hermione whispered, a little wet-eyed herself. "He feels really guilty. All this time that he's been with the ministry could have been spent with Fred and the rest of you, and I think, well, he was there when Fred died, and I'm sure he knows it's ridiculous—he couldn't have done anything—but he still feels responsible…."

They stood there in an awkward silence for a moment until Harry said, "So are you two done out here?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "Did Mrs. Weasley say she wanted us inside now?"

"No, she said to go help you and Percy," said Harry. "Angelina's come to visit George."

"She was sort of dating Fred, remember," Ginny put in.

They were saved from another silence by two more visitors coming up the drive. Hermione dragged Ron out to greet them, and Harry tagged along behind. As the day went on, guests came and went, bringing flowers, food, cards, and, Harry gathered from the whispered protests of Mrs. Weasley, money. They tried to stay out of the way, drifting around the house tidying whatever they could find and rearranging things that were already organized.

A bit before dinner, Hermione and Ginny were downstairs helping cook, and Angelina and George were taking a walk around the garden. Harry could hear them through the window of Ron's room, throwing a few gnomes over the hedge here and there and laughing about something or other. Harry and Ron were making an attempt at cleaning Ron's room, but had only got it passably tidy when Ron suddenly sat down on the bed staring at the replacement dress robes he'd got from Fred and George.

"Ron? You okay?" Harry asked quietly, thinking of the joke shop he'd helped fund, the shop Fred and George had planned to run together.

"Yeah, 'course," said Ron in a quavering voice, clearing his throat. "I just… you know…do you reckon I ought to wear these to the f… to the… or do you—maybe I should wear something funny… but then, they did buy these for me…."

"I suppose, if it's formal…." Harry trailed off, thinking of George's joke earlier. "D'you think it is?"

"Dunno," Ron sniffed. Harry sat down on the camp bed with a squeak of springs, and after a pause Ron said, "Never thanked him properly, did I? This is probably the most decent thing I own now, you know, 'sides my broom I suppose..." he trailed off, mumbling something that sounded like "deluminator."

Ron's voice was quickly becoming ragged. During their nights sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry had heard Ron crying into his pillow once or twice, and had left him with his family several times when it was clear they needed a moment. Ron swallowed, and Harry, his own throat annoyingly tight, decided this wasn't the best time to ask whether or not George intended to continue with the joke shop.

"I'm sure he doesn't mind," Harry said lamely. "He wouldn't want you feeling guilty for it at any rate."

"Yeah," Ron said. "Yeah, you're right…sorry, mate. Guess this should go over here…."

He went and put the dress robes away and was just starting on cleaning Pigwidgeon's cage when Ginny poked her head in the door. Harry, who had been fiddling around with stuff on Ron's shelves, quickly put down Ron's copy of _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches__. _The inside cover looked like a note had been written by the twins, and he had almost been tempted to read it.

"Mum says to come to dinner," Ginny said, mostly looking at Harry. He immediately followed her out and down the stairs, thinking that for the first time in his life, he was not hungry for Mrs. Weasley's cooking. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his insides, which had been aching constantly for nearly a week, had now seemed to vanish.

During dinner, once Mrs. Johnson and Angelina had left, George relentlessly teased his siblings, imitating a younger, shier Ginny when Harry walked into the room, recounting Ron's Quidditch blunder, and predicting that soon the masses would demand Harry be inaugurated as the youngest Minister of Magic in history. It stopped abruptly when George wondered aloud whether Percy would go back to being an assistant to the Minister in that case, and Percy quickly left the table, mumbling about the bathroom.

"Oh no," Mrs. Weasley cried. "I hope he's alright…."

"Dunno what's got into him," George said. "He used to take compliments so well, you know? Thanks for dinner, mum." He left the table, and Mrs. Weasley soon followed, saying she wanted to get a start on laundry.

"Good thing mum sent Aunt Muriel away," Ginny whispered to Harry. They were holding hands under the table again, a fact which made Harry feel even more comfortable than the excellent food sitting in his stomach, the first steaming spoonful of which had reminded him that his stomach did, in fact, still exist. "She probably thinks it's improper for anyone to laugh at a time like this. Did you hear she wanted to put us all in dress robes for the funeral?"

"What'd mum say about that?" Ron asked.

"She said Fred and George's friends could dress however they wanted."

"Fred did say," Harry began, but faltered when everyone looked at him. "At Bill's wedding, he said if he ever got married, he'd let everyone wear whatever they like. He'd probably say this should be no different."

"Exactly," said Ginny. "Actually I'm thinking of setting off some of their fireworks at the funeral, since George might not feel up to it himself… I've already snuck some out of their room, but don't tell mum…."

"Brilliant," said Ron. "Honestly I think Fred would die if he—w-well, I mean, he wouldn't like it if… things were all stuffy and boring." His voice dropped to a feeble mumble at the end, his face burning.

Hermione patted him, tactfully ignoring his blunder. Harry took a deep breath—the words _Fred would_ _die_ had made his heart flip over and set it pounding hot blood through his veins.

That night, they all went to bed without waiting for Mr. Weasley to get home. Mrs. Weasley had explained that he and Bill and Charlie were putting in extra time in the aftermath of everything. Harry wondered what that meant. Bill might be helping to get Gringotts put back together, while Mr. Weasley had his job on top of anything the Order of the Phoenix might still be doing. Perhaps Charlie was helping with that. He thought of Mrs. Weasley waiting downstairs, and all the nights she'd spent going mad with worry, wondering whether another family member was not going to make it home. He thought that now, he might finally understand what that was like. She had lived through Voldemort's first age of power, where disappearances and deaths were every day events. Now, even though it was all over, Harry couldn't help worrying, too….

He rolled over on the camp bed and tried to break that train of thought. Voldemort was gone now, and the Death Eaters would all be scattering like cockroaches into hiding without him around. Very soon, no one would need to fear for their loved ones again; the worst was already over—there would be no more Freds, no more relatives dying prematurely. The Death Eaters must know they had lost. He tried to let that thought comfort him as he fell asleep.

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

The next morning, they were roused by the sounds of shouting, and for one brief moment Harry thought someone must have broken in, the house was under attack—but then he heard what George was yelling.

"HE'S MY BROTHER, I KNEW HIM BEST, I KNOW WHAT HE WOULD WANT!"

"Honestly, Molly, it's completely improper—"

"IMPROPER! IMPROPER? YOU COMING IN AND TELLING US WHAT TO DO, THAT'S WHAT'S IMPROPER YOU OLD—"

"GEORGE! Please, calm down!"

"MUM, YOU CAN'T SIDE WITH HER—"

"I'm NOT—"

"What the—" Ron asked, getting up off the floor after falling out of bed, his legs tangled in the covers. "What's going on?"

"Dunno," Harry said, and found himself opening the door a crack so that Mrs. Weasley and Aunt Muriel's angry voices hissed up the stairs more clearly.

"This is not some circus, this is a _funeral_, Molly! Do you enjoy the idea of your own son dressed up in some ridiculous—"

"WHY DO YOU CARE?"

"George, please! Muriel, I appreciate your helpfulness, but Arthur and I have agreed that it should be up to George—"

"How can you possibly appreciate my helpfulness if you have barely given me any chance at being helpful?" Muriel was clearly offended. "I came all this way, knowing you must be overwhelmed—funerals are exhausting affairs after all—but I've barely come in the door, barely been allowed to help with dinner, when I find I'm not welcome in my own relations' house! I must say your claims of including the entire family in your decisions are fairly hollow from what I can see! I should think my experience—I am a hundred and eight after all—"

"I've told you." Mrs. Weasley made a gallant attempt at keeping her voice kind and patient. "We would have loved to have you, but you would have had to sleep with Ginny and Hermione, or else on the couch, there simply wasn't _room_—"

"You wouldn't even have me for dinner!" Muriel screeched. "You've got two of your children's friends staying here, but blood relatives come second to that high and mighty Potter boy and whoever that bushy-haired unsightly girl is." Harry heard Ron growl wordlessly behind him as Muriel continued. It was no great surprise if Muriel didn't like him—she had positively loved slandering Dumbledore at Bill and Fleur's wedding last year, and Harry had noticed that those who disliked Dumbledore often ended up disliking him as well.

"Don't you go insulting Harry!" Mrs. Weasley and George shouted at the same time.

"If it weren't for him, we could have lost more than—"

"He killed _You-Know-W__ho_ you stupid, smelly—"

"George, don't call names! Muriel, really, I don't mean to be rude, but it _really_ is _not_ your concern!"

"Never mind then!" Muriel's voice was high and brittle. "You can go dress his body without me if you're going to be this insulting and absurd about it! Go on and make bigger fools of yourselves, dress him however you want, but don't say I didn't try to help you!"

Harry stepped back from the door. Fred's body. He'd forgotten that he might be seeing it again. It seemed silly now, to have forgotten that it was still out there somewhere, waiting to be put into the ground. Would it be put on display? The thought of parading past it seemed somehow terrible to Harry and made him want to go back to bed and forget about breakfast altogether. Seeing it once had been enough for him, seeing Cedric and Dumbledore and Lupin and Tonks and Colin Creevey, it had been more than enough….

He sat back down shakily on the camp bed, and realized Ron had left the room. He looked at Pigwidgeon's empty cage, and the image of Hedwig, lying dead in hers, flashed across his mind. How stupid to be worried about seeing a body when he had seen so many before—when he knew it wasn't really Fred. He put his face in his hands for a moment, trying not to let his mind stray to that night, thinking instead of what he could do for the Weasleys. He felt he ought to give them a gift, and realized he could easily visit Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade this afternoon and try to find something… something for Mrs. Weasley and George. Maybe Ginny and Ron too. His heart swelled with fondness for every single Weasley (except perhaps Aunt Muriel), and he was able to get up and go to breakfast.

Charlie joined his family and Hermione in saying hello as Harry sat down. George was no longer yelling, since Muriel was gone, but was determined to go with his mother and father to dress Fred's body after breakfast, and all of Mrs. Weasley's "are you sure about this, dear?"s and "you don't need to come"s were to no avail. He ate his oatmeal with record speed and then loudly announced that anybody who came to the funeral in "some fussy outfit" would be made to sit in the back and he would give free joke items to anybody who wore something that made him laugh.

"Oi, Ron, you should put the frills back on your old dress robes and wear them," he suggested.

"I'm not wearing that!" Ron burst immediately, but then seemed to reconsider. "What'll you give me? Mind, I think I threw out most of the lace."

"Well then it's no deal, you'll have to come up with something better!"

Mr. Weasley's appearance interrupted their bartering, and Harry was alarmed to see that he looked nearly as pale as when he had after being attacked by Voldemort's snake two years prior. He gave Mrs. Weasley a hello kiss and patted each of the children on the shoulder, then collapsed into a chair and began savoring the steaming cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal in front of him.

"How's work, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked.

"Oh, the same as it has been. It should slow down soon, I suppose. I've got today and tomorrow off, of course, and I could have more but… well…."

"I was thinking of going to Diagon Alley today," Harry said. "To do some shopping."

"What, by yourself?" Mr. Weasley asked with an alarmed look. "No, no, Harry, that's not possible. Maybe I can get you an escort later in the week—"

"An escort? What?" Harry stared. "What do I need an escort for?"

"Yeah, Dad, Harry's safer now than he was all last year!" said Ron.

"No, no." Mr. Weasley kept shaking his head. "It's already been arranged you'll have one for the funeral."

"But _why_?" Harry asked. "Voldemort's gone!"

"Because, Harry, we still haven't caught all the Death Eaters!" Mr. Weasley's look was so intent that Harry almost slumped back in his seat. "They'll be after you now, the most loyal ones. They'll want to get revenge. No, I'm afraid it's not time to let ourselves get too complacent yet."

Harry suddenly remembered Neville's parents, Alice and Frank Longbottom, and how they had been tortured out of their minds right after Voldemort's first disappearance, when everyone had thought they were safe. "But then," he said, "that means that no one else is safe either. No one who was there at the fight, anyway. I wasn't the only one fighting Voldemort that night."

"No, but you're the one who finally beat him. If they can get you, anything is possible. If Bellatrix Lestrange were still alive, would you put it past her to try to catch you, especially now when your guard is down?"

"No," Harry answered right away, and knew he would have to resign himself to this for now. He decided not to ask whether he would continue to require escorts wherever he went until every single Death Eater was captured, but focused instead on finishing his food and imagining what he could possibly wear to the funeral that would make George laugh.

George and his parents left quickly after breakfast. He gave them a last wave at the door, clutching a bundle of clothes which included a dragonskin jacket and a feathered, sequined lump of bright green cloth Harry could only assume was a hat or bag of some kind. Then they were gone, and the rest of them set about cleaning up the kitchen.

"Is there something I can do to help?" Harry asked for what must have been the tenth time since his arrival.

"Come on, Harry." Ginny's hand slid into his again. "We'll do the dishes."

Ten minutes later, Harry was sheepishly watching Ginny mop up a spill of soapy water he'd caused by flicking his wand a little too eagerly at the sink.

"Sorry," he said. "Why don't we just use a scouring charm for the dishes?"

"Mum says that only gets the surface clean… besides… '_Brittle's makes __dishes__ sparkle __beneath your __vittles'_." Ginny rolled her eyes and pointed at the bottle of dish soap on the counter, which was labeled _Brittle's Bubbles_.

"I don't really mind it taking longer anyway," she whispered, as she passed him a clean dish. "You dry."

"I don't suppose I should be using a cloth," Harry said.

"The charm's _E__xaresco_."

"Right…." Harry lifted his wand. "_Exaresco__!"_ He put the now-dry dish in the cupboard.

They went on like that for a minute or two, until Harry blurted, "Do you think your parents would accept if I said I wanted them to have Kreacher?" It was the only decent gift he could think of without going out to shop.

"I dunno," said Ginny. "He's not a very good house-elf, is he?"

"He's been loads better since… well, he's been better lately," Harry said, not wanting to talk about anything that had to do with Horcruxes or people who had died because of Voldemort. "You'd never recognize him now."

"You don't need to give us anything," Ginny said firmly. "You're practically a Weasley yourself."

"I know." He felt a brief ripple of warmth through him as he put away a handful of spoons. "I just feel like I should do _something_…."

He wished he had an excuse to cover up the sudden damp heat in his eyes, such as steam from the hot dishwater, but Ginny was draining the last of it—he couldn't believe how quickly they had finished.

"Harry…." Ginny held back the last pot from him, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Her face was stern, but not unkind—much like her mother. "You don't feel guilty, do you? You're not responsible at all."

Harry was glad the others seemed to have vanished from the kitchen. He didn't know what to say, and so he stared at the pot instead, wishing she would just give it to him so he could put it away and go hide in Ron's room until this moment passed.

"I'm alright," he said, angry at the way his voice wobbled. "Let me just—this is the last one—"

She let go of it and watched him as he said "_Exaresco_" one last time and set it up on the shelf. When he turned back to her, he said, "I don't suppose that charm works on people's eyes does it?" then forced a laugh he instantly regretted—it was awful and unconvincing. The joke seemed really stupid too, now that he'd said it.

"Oh, Harry," she said, leading him by the hand out the door into the yard. And Harry was back in his sixth year, following her away from Dumbledore's broken body at the foot of the astronomy tower, and to his frustration a few tears spilled over and went cool on his cheeks. They went their way through the tangled shrubs until they hit the stretch where they usually played Quidditch. It was far enough away from the house that it was reasonably private and quiet.

She patted the grass to make sure it was dry and sat down, tugging on his arm so that he would sit too. "Ginny," he said, feeling ashamed. "Don't worry about me… you're the one who's lost a brother."

"Yeah," she said calmly. "And I'm trying not to feel too angry that I wasn't able to help fight. I keep thinking that if I had been there, I could have done something, stopped Fred from dying, you know?"

Harry finally sat down—it was easier than standing—and shook his head. "I'm glad you didn't get to fight much. Enough people died trying to protect me." His throat felt as if a wad of nails were stuck in it—he swallowed with difficulty.

"You _do_ feel guilty!" Ginny leaned forward. Harry avoided her eye. "But you're the reason it all ended, Harry, you're the reason no one else needs to die now. It's not that they died because of you; they died because of Voldemort. You know that. You've got to accept that there's nothing more you could have done, just like I need to accept that I probably wouldn't have stopped Fred from dying… if Lupin and Tonks died, being Aurors, it's really just luck, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry meant to say, but it came out in a creaky whisper. "You've no reason to feel guilty…." He wanted to be the one comforting Ginny, not the one shedding tears. The same sort of pain which had driven him to trash Dumbledore's office after Sirius had died was pushing its way up into his throat, but he couldn't throw a fit like that in front of Ginny, who had lost so much—it would be selfish, not to mention embarrassing. He gritted his teeth, trying to think of something nice to say, something that would turn the tables.

"You're right," he said, staring between his knees at the grass. "Everything can only get better now. It's lucky we didn't lose anyone else, actually. I can't imagine how it is for you, and Ron and George and your mum and dad… is your dad okay? He looked really ill."

"Mum says he's not sleeping much," Ginny shrugged, but her brow was furrowed. "He works a lot. I think it's easier for him to keep busy, but it won't last at this rate, he'll crash, and I'm afraid of what will happen when he does."

"You and George seem to be doing really well." Harry picked some grass to shreds and waited for his thoughts to form into words. "Fred wasn't even my brother, but it seems like you've been stronger about it all than I have."

She grimaced. "Says Harry Potter, who spent an entire year in hiding while hunting Horcruxes, went to sacrifice himself to Voldemort—and did I mention all the horrible stuff you've been through before all that? If anyone has a right to be upset right now, it's you."

Harry gave a hollow laugh that sounded more like a strangled cough. "None of that stuff really feels like it matters. If I went around talking about all that, it'd only be a matter of time before the Daily Prophet picked up a list and started telling everyone how much of a martyr I am—"

"Who _cares_ what they think?" Ginny growled suddenly, and a tear dripped off her chin. She wiped it on her shoulder with gritted teeth. "Fred's gone. People died. Beating Voldemort didn't bring them back. The world's better off now, but… they're still gone, and they were _your_ friends, too. Is that nothing to be sad about compared to all the good news?"

"No," said Harry. "It's definitely not nothing."

He was sure Ginny was going to cry, but she just stared at him.

"So how are you feeling, then?" His voice croaked a bit.

"I'm not going to say I'm alright, because I'm not. Fred and George were… well…" Ginny struggled. She hugged her knees, looking everywhere but Harry, squinting and blinking more than was entirely necessary. "It's odd, I feel closer to them and Percy than to Ron. I'm worried about George, I don't know how he's making it. He goes to his room a lot to be alone, and I don't think he wants us to see how miserable he is. And of course mum and dad are completely devastated… everybody is. It's just hard to believe… to think we'll never see him again."

Ginny went very tense, and Harry had the impression she was nearly holding her breath. He felt the urge to say something to her about meeting Dumbledore in King's Cross, wished he could remember the exact words of what Luna had told him after Sirius had died, but the lump in his throat was getting harder as his mind kept flashing forward to the funeral tomorrow. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley weeping over the boggart in Grimmauld Place as it had become every single member of her family in turn, all dead. She would be sobbing tomorrow. Would George forbid himself to cry? Would Ginny? Would he also fight his feelings until it was over?

With nothing to say, Harry scooted over on the grass to sit beside Ginny and put his arms around her. She was shivering a little, though it wasn't chilly yet.

"Sorry," Ginny growled, wiping her eyes as she leaned into him.

Harry opened his mouth to laugh, to say "don't be stupid" or something that would make Ginny know it was alright, but all that happened was that his lungs sucked in a bit of air that hurt his throat even more, and his eyes felt a bit like they were recovering from a stinging hex. He swallowed repeatedly.

After a long moment, which left a few damp spots on Harry's shoulder where Ginny's cheek rested, and Harry's throat seemed determined to dislodge the lump in it by sucking in more sudden breaths (swallowing did not do any good), Ginny's voice wobbled out from his chest.

"I miss him."

"Me too," Harry managed to say, though the next moment his throat threatened to close itself permanently. When he could breathe again, they were both crying, and still fighting it quietly.

He thought of handing his Triwizard Tournament winnings to the twins, saying that everyone would need a laugh soon. He thought of George trying to put on a brave face, joking with everyone. What Fred would say if he could see them like this? What sorts of teasing would he subject them to, trying to make them laugh instead…?

After a minute, Ginny got up to go inside, and Harry was grateful for the walk back to the house and how it seemed to make it easier to breathe again. They hurried to the bathroom to wash their faces while everyone else was in their rooms. Then Ginny wordlessly shared some of her Honeydukes chocolate with Harry in the living room while they waited for George and the parents to come home. Hermione and Ron came down—Hermione gave Harry a feeble smile and Ron seemed to be suffering from a runny nose as he was carrying a wad of tissue in one hand. Turning on the radio to ease the silence, they all sank onto the carpet to watch a chess match or two between Ron and Ginny.

Perhaps an hour later, much later than Harry had expected, the front door opened, and George came in, followed by his parents. Mrs. Weasley was not crying, though her eyes were a bit red as usual. Mr. Weasley pushed her gently into a chair and set about making tea. There was much clattering and a crash of breaking glass, but Mrs. Weasley barely seemed to notice Mr. Weasley's mutterings. "Oh drat it—don't know what I—well it's a simple fix." George, who was also a bit red around the eyes, came into the living room, leaned over the chess board, and turned to Ginny. "I wouldn't waste my time with that bishop, he's trying to get your king, see?"

Then he hurried upstairs, leaving Ron to mutter behind his snotty tissue about unfair hints while Ginny swallowed and glared at the board, trying to figure out how exactly she'd gone wrong. Harry hovered in a sort of blank state, watching the match but not really taking it in, listening to the radio but not understanding the lyrics, and feeling a sort of irritation he couldn't place, but decided to ignore.


	3. A Right and Proper Funeral

**Chapter Three - A Right and Proper Funeral  
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**ˆˆ****ˆ**

It was completely dark. Harry tried to lift a hand to his face but something kept him motionless, as if the air around him had solidified. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt; a scream pierced through him like a searing knife, high and full of agony, terribly familiar. He wanted to scream too, but his mouth wouldn't work, was numb, and the scream repeated and was strangled abruptly by sobs. Chills raced through his veins toward his heart. He rolled over and fell; his stomach flew up into his throat just before he hit the floor.

Harry lay shaking, stunned, eyes screwed shut. His heart pounded against the wooden floor as he panted for air. He tested his arms which were folded against his body—they could move. He tried to quiet his breathing and listen for another scream, but he heard laughter, and it filled him with confusion.

"Oh come on, Ron, it's not even that good!" a girl's voice said laughingly.

"I don't care, it's not funny! It's bloody disgusting, that's what it is!"

"Stop being such a—honestly, you're an adult now, you can't still be this frightened of spiders…!"

Ginny. That was Ginny's voice. But that wasn't the girl being tortured. _Hermione_. Harry's heart gave a jolt, and he jumped up, disoriented by the sight of Ron's bedroom; he had been sure he was in a cellar or dungeon.

He staggered to the door but it opened before he could grab the handle. Ron bolted inside and made to shut it but a mass of brown and red squashed itself into the doorframe, and Ginny, giggling, forced her way inside.

"Out, get out!" Ron whined. "Urgh, don't—HARRY, SAVE ME!"

Ginny had spread her arms to lunge at Ron, and at once the odd, lumpy tubes of brown cloth hanging off the sides of her shirt rose with them, connected by thin strings. Seeing the shape they made, and the brown cap Ginny wore which was encircled with black, shining eyes, Harry realized she had dressed up as a spider.

Ignoring Ron's yelps as Ginny flailed her spider-legs, Harry left, unable to slow his frantic pulse. He must find Hermione, make sure she was alright….

"HERMIONE?" he called, thundering down the stairs as fast as he dared. "HERMIONE!"

He nearly crashed into Percy, who was heading up.

"Oh," Percy said, looking startled. "Good morning. Mum's looking—"

Harry rushed past him and threw open the door to Ginny's room. A shrill noise erupted instantly, and a blur of brown hair flew behind the bed.

"Hermione?" Harry hurried forward.

"_Harry__?_ What are you—_get out_—you're supposed to knock—!"

He stumbled to a halt. "Are you okay?" he blurted.

"What? Yes, I'm fine, I just—" Red-faced and red-eyed, Hermione emerged from behind the bed, tugging at the bottom of her shirt. It was obvious she'd been crying, and Harry realized she might have also been getting dressed. "What are you doing, bursting in here like that?" She frowned. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I—I just—" He stammered. "Are you okay?"

"Yes… as much as anyone can be on a day like this." She was making a brave attempt at her usual matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh." He took a deep breath. "I just thought…." She was watching him intently with a look of concern that he knew well. "Nothing."

"Why were you yelling my name?"

"Bad dream." Harry looked at the far wall. He was still shaking a little.

"About _me?_"

"I think so." Harry didn't know who else it could be—the voice had been female. "I was someplace dark, and you were screaming…." Now that he could see she was safe, he wanted to laugh it off. "Er, sorry I didn't knock."

"Nevermind that. I think you must have been dreaming about that night in Malfoy Manor. When Bellatrix…." Hermione wore a sickened look. "But it was just a dream, wasn't it? I'm alright."

Harry nodded, relieved but unsettled. Screaming in his head usually meant approaching dementors or trips into Voldemort's mind. But there had been no high, cruel voice casting Unforgiveable Curses this time... Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he had been feeling, but the strongest impression which came to him was one of agony and fear….

"Your scar isn't hurting, is it?" Hermione's voice held a note of alarm, and Harry realized he had been pressing his palm to his forehead while concentrating. He opened his eyes.

"No. No, it's fine. I guess it was just a dream."

"Of course it was," Hermione said, frowning slightly. She put her hands on his shoulders. "After all that happened last year, it's not surprising, is it?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and tried to ignore the lingering dread he felt.

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

Stress and grief brought out the worst in Mrs. Weasley that morning. She barked orders with such ferocity that even Harry didn't feel safe enough to protest when she sat him and Ron down on stools to cut their hair. George tried to cheer her up (and perhaps protect his siblings) by swapping her wand for a trick one while she wasn't looking. Mrs. Weasley, rather than looking delighted at the bouquet of flowers it became when she tried to set George's unwashed dishes to chase him up the stairs, burst into terrible racking sobs and had to be escorted from the room by her husband.

"Blimey," breathed George, looking rather shocked as he edged back into the kitchen. "We haven't even got there yet. Think she'll make it through the day?"

Harry's escort arrived a half hour before the funeral. Mr. Weasley had taken over by this point, and went out to greet them all—they waited patiently in the yard until everyone was ready to go five minutes later. Harry stepped out into the patchy sunshine wearing a Weasley sweater, muggle pants, and a pair of mismatched socks. No one could see them, but it was the best he could manage—thinking up hilarious costumes was not a talent of his, especially not lately. Dobby had made the socks for him at Christmas a few years ago, and they were the only clothing articles he owned that were even slightly amusing. Harry tried not to think too hard about the elf who knitted them.

The five people who made up his guard greeted him, smiling and shaking his hand. He felt a jolt at two of the names: Sturgis Podmore and Hestia Jones. They had been among his escort to Grimmauld Place three years earlier. His mind was traveling backward to the crowd in the Dursleys's kitchen: Kingsley, Lupin and Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody dropping his whizzing eye into a glass of water….

Harry couldn't help but feel that the others from that group should be here, too... Jerking back to the present, he, Ginny, and the ministry workers all laid their hands on the old Wellington boot which had been made into a Portkey for their use. The world spun wildly for a few moments, and then they were deposited on a bit of yellowing grass in front of a wide blue-shingled building surrounded by immaculate shrubbery.

"We came here for Uncle Bilius's funeral," Ginny informed Harry as they veered away from the building. Across the grass was a freshly dug grave, surrounded by rows of chairs. "It's set up so muggles can't see it. We'll be having the luncheon in there." She nodded toward the building.

No guests had arrived yet. Solemn-looking old wizards in black dress robes were carefully levitating a sleek open casket made of dark polished wood out the doors and toward the grave. They set it gently down on a narrow stand next to the hole. Fred's body was wrapped in a golden cloth. The wizards pulled gently at it, revealing his face, and Mrs. Weasley gave a small wail. Harry turned away quickly and headed toward a picnic table. Atop the table sat little booklets which said _In memory of Fred Weasley_on the cover in gold lettering, along with several framed photos which George was rearranging.

"Rubbish of course, some of them," he told Harry. "Mum forgets this was me holding the stick, see." He showed a picture of a windswept boy standing on the crest of a hill waving a walking stick over his head. "And this one here, Fred had run to the loo when they took this one." Harry blinked at the photo of who he could only assume was Bill with shorter hair. He was wearing a Prefect badge, and his parents' arms were around him, while a smaller George pretended to vomit.

Most of the rest of the pictures were of the twins together, which seemed only natural. Yet it gave the unsettling impression that this funeral was not just for Fred, but for both of the Weasley twins.

George grabbed a large basket of powder-blue handkerchiefs from under the table and went to work depositing them on the folding chairs, while Harry's escort spread out a bit, leaving Harry relatively alone. Percy was standing nearby, dressed as professionally as ever and staring at an old photo of what must have been his child self: the little boy was having his hair and face pulled by the twins while crammed between them on his mother's lap. Harry turned away from the photos and looked across the grass. Mrs. Weasley hovered at some distance with Ron, who had been suffering from congestion and headaches since the day before and was wearing a flowery nightdress much like one belonging to a wizard Harry had seen at the Quidditch World Cup.

Then Harry saw people approaching—mostly red-headed, Muriel's unmistakable figure among them. He went to stand by Ron, who was stuffing another wad of tissue in his pocket and sniffing miserably.

"Urgh," he croaked. "Feels like someone shot me full of Bobotuber Pus."

The crowd came closer and Mrs. Weasley began forcing little smiles at her relatives, grasping their hands or hugging them in turn. Muriel flashed a scandalized look at Ron's nightgown, but before she could say anything more than "looks like a mental patient," Percy had walked up to her and offered to show her to her seat. Ron glared at her back, grumbling.

"If she sticks around much longer, we'll all be mental patients!"

"'Arry, eet is good to see you—and you, Ronald." Fleur's voice brought both their heads around. Harry received a kiss on the cheek, but Fleur, dressed in silky dark blue robes, refrained from kissing Ron, perhaps because of his dribbling nose. She patted him gently on the cheek instead. "Eet is an unbearable tragedy, ze loss of a family member. Bill 'as not been himself lately."

"Y-yeah," Ron mumbled. "Thanks, Fleur."

Bill did not smile as he shook Harry's hand, unless a momentary twitch in his cheek counted. He hugged Ron wordlessly and went with Fleur to find a seat.

Next was Angelina Johnson with her parents, and some people Harry didn't know who seemed to be friends of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Then something very odd was approaching. Harry's first impression was that it was a pair of walking, man-sized mushrooms—he rubbed his eyes, and when they got closer, Harry realized it was really Luna and her father Xenophilius, in long colorless robes which might not have gone amiss at a funeral but for the bizarre headwear—a bit like deformed poofy chef's hats with ear flaps. From the top of these squashy hats, what seemed to be a shriveled, stringy orange hung by a thread, emitting a noise like a slide whistle with every step.

"Oh." Mrs. Weasley seemed at a loss for words, so she just mumbled another "thank you for coming."

Luna drifted over. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said to Ron, who nodded and cleared his throat very noisily.

"Hi Luna," Harry said. "Er—cool outfit."

"I'm surprised no one else is wearing anything to protect them," she said.

"Protect them from what?"

"From the Tragumpuses of course," she said. "Haven't you heard of them? They live in graveyards, and they sing—most people can't hear them, but they can still control you if you don't have your skin covered with white Puffskein wool—"

Ron began to laugh, but Luna seemed more forgiving of this than usual.

"Yes, laughter also keeps them away," she added.

"I think we'll probably be okay, then," Ron said, glancing over at George, who seemed to have attached an ear of corn to the side of his head. The ear was emitting loud pops and scattering popcorn everywhere, prompting raucous laughter from Angelina, Katie Bell and Lee Jordan. Luna dissolved into giggles, her orange swinging madly before her nose, while Harry snorted into his hand. Ron, having just done the same thing into his tissue, was needing a new one very badly.

"What's this?" Harry pointed at the shriveled orange.

"The eggsac of a—"

Ron backed away so fast that Harry took a step back too despite himself. Ron hurried into the building, possibly looking for a bathroom.

"—Tunisian Dancing Spider," Luna finished. "I think I'll go sit down now."

She waved at Harry and turned to go. Seeing Luna gave him a stroke of inspiration, and he lifted his wand to his left eyebrow, uttering the transfiguration incantation which was supposed to turn it bright yellow. He didn't want to greet guests without Ron, so he followed Luna up to George, who was stuffing popcorn into his mouth.

"Luna!" George said. "Glad you and your dad could make it."

"So am I," Luna beamed. "I'm very sorry about your brother. I brought you a gift."

"Ah, you shouldn't have!" George said, but looked intensely curious as Luna rummaged beneath her long robes and pulled out two items: one looked like a luminous green carrot that had split its root several times and was pulsing slightly; the other was another orange eggsac.

"Wow, a real Zanglatso!" George looked delighted. "Where did you get it?"

"It's a special kind of Gurdyroot, actually," Luna informed him in a patient tone. "Dad found it out in the garden. If you make tea from it, it'll help you cheer up, and give you some extra powers—"

"Well thanks, Luna! And what's this?"

"It'll keep the Tragumpuses away from you. It's an eggsac from a Tunisian—"

"—Dancing Spider?" George burst ecstatically. He shook the eggsac very gently by his good ear—it made an odd chirping sound. "Is it going to hatch soon?"

"Of course," she smiled. "They only work if they're close to hatching."

"Excellent! Thanks a lot! Oi, Verity!" He waved his hand. "Spencer, come look at this!"

A witch with short blonde hair, whom Harry recognized from his one trip to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, looked startled but hurried over, followed by a young brunette wizard. They cast some curious glances at Harry, and he decided it was time to go find a seat. He steeled himself and—crunching a few times on popcorn left underfoot—headed for the chairs. Percy and Charlie were standing just past George and nodded at Harry as he passed. The front third of the chairs were already almost filled, but there was a canvas canopy set up over some separate chairs nearer to the casket. Ginny was standing there with her head on Mr. Weasley's shoulder, no doubt gazing at Fred's body. Bill and Fleur sat further down the row.

Harry saw, as he came closer, that it looked more like a very good wax figure than a real body, which was just as well in his opinion. Fred's face was unnaturally serene, hands folded on his chest, holding a bouquet of very long-stemmed scarlet lilies. He was dressed identically to what George was wearing today, but with the addition of a bright green, sequined hat, which had a festive pink feather or two sticking out of it. The hat seemed to have fallen off Fred's head at some point, and lay just above his tousled red hair. A few girls passed by Harry, and he realized a second later that it was Padma and Parvati Patil. They gazed at the body sadly, and as Harry watched, Parvati whispered, "oh, his hat's fallen off," and reached to fix it. A moment later both screamed—Fred's head had vanished. Padma backed away, clapping a hand to a bright red lipstick mark on her cheek.

"Not to worry, not to worry!" George rushed over and tugged the Headless Hat off his twin's head—Fred's face reappeared. "Just a Headless Hat! Oh, did they get you? Lovely, aren't they, Lipstick Lilies! I thought Fred would want one last chance to repay his admirers, eh?"

A smattering of laughter swept through the nearby crowd. George patted the feebly giggling Patils on the back, then went back to greet the last few stragglers. Harry, at Mrs. Weasley's insistence, took a seat next to Ginny. Sturgis Podmore stood silently next to the canopy, while the rest of his guard remained scattered in a rough circle, as if guarding a perimeter.

Soon, Ron and Hermione joined them, followed by Percy, Charlie, and last of all Mr. Weasley and George. Harry looked over the rows of chairs—they seemed a little over half full. He caught sight of a stuffed vulture—Neville was sitting by his Gran, and Dean Thomas sat near them. Harry caught Neville's eye and waved; Neville waved back. Harry was also surprised to see Susan Bones near the back with her parents, but then remembered she had been part of Dumbledore's Army, the same as Neville and Dean.

Mr. Weasley rose and walked up to the little platform and podium which stood right behind Fred's body; a hush fell on the crowd. Mr. Weasley was fumbling with something behind the podium, and then straightened with what looked like a squat purple lampshade on his head, topped by the wheel from a child's tricycle and a golfing tee, the sides bristling with fruit kabobs.

"Good morning, and thank you all for coming," Mr. Weasley said. "Charlie, George, and I have each prepared a tribute for Fred." A few bits of melon slid off the end of one skewer and plopped onto the ground in dead silence. "Well, go on, laugh!"

A faint giggle began at the back, and soon more joined in—Harry let himself laugh for a few seconds, the noise bursting unevenly from his throat. Once it had died down, Mr. Weasley, though still looking pale and ill, smiled.

"Anyone who knew Fred will understand that our eccentricities can be very… profitable." A few knowing chuckles emitted from the crowd. "If nothing else, he and George have taught me to value my own. It's no secret that I like muggles. I find their gadgets fascinating. At the risk of sounding a bit political and full of myself, I suggest that this fascination of mine reflects something that is _very_ much needed in the world today. Respect for those different from us… for those who, some might believe, are inferior to us. A respect which I hope will become common, now that the world has seen the terrible consequences…."

Mr. Weasley reached for one of the blue tissues on the podium, dabbed at his eyes, and took a deep breath. A bit of kiwi splattered on the grass. "But enough about me. Fred and George! Wonderful boys." Harry felt his eyes sting in response to Mr. Weasley's quivering smile. His voice went on, shaking emphatically. "They've given all of us something even more valuable. Because is it worth living in a world where no one can laugh? Some of you have probably noticed, but Molly and I decided to let George run the show today, and he has done an excellent job already, showing us that the best thing to do is to move forward, and remember, that even—even…." Mr. Weasley cut off, hiding his face in his hand. No one laughed this time as an entire half a kabob unloaded its contents.

Harry looked away, unable to bear this sight, but everywhere he looked, people's eyes were glistening. Hermione was sobbing quietly into Ron's shoulder, and George had his eyes screwed shut as if concentrating deeply. Percy had removed his horn-rimmed glasses so he could press a handkerchief to both eyes. Mrs. Weasley was doubled over in her seat; Ginny and Charlie rubbed her back.

"Even," Mr. Weasley choked his way onward, struggling to get each word out, "if… there is much we have lost, and life seems… terribly unfair—" A noise like an elephant's trumpet rang loudly from Harry's right, and every eye turned to Ron, who was clutching one of the blue handkerchiefs and looking mortified. People began to laugh again, and Mr. Weasley blew his own nose in one, producing a sound like twittering birds.

"You see?" He laughed wetly, waving the hanky above his head and wincing when his hand met the end of a skewer. "Even so, there will be moments of happiness. Moments we can share with the loved ones we still have: our family and friends. Those moments are what will be most important in the days to come, and the good memories we have of those who… are no longer with us. They are the proof that life is, ultimately, worth celebrating, and there is something in every one of us that wants to create a world where it is easier to laugh."

"Let's have a round of applause for Fred, and for George, who still keeps us laughing even now."

Harry clapped as loudly as he could, hoping it would dispel the swelling tightness in his chest. Applause rang through the crowd, and a few people even whooped loudly. Mr. Weasley came down and sat, pulling a bit of banana off his hat and popping it in his mouth while Charlie went up next, to a chorus of chuckles and handkerchiefs which filled the air with bells, fog horns, whistles, and roars.

"Well, I'm Charlie Weasley if you don't know me. If you do, you know I'm the cool one who works with dragons." Charlie grinned a little, but seemed nervous. "I'm supposed to tell you all about the Fred I knew. Truth is, he and George were terrifying children, totally horrible. I used to wish mum had shipped one of them off at birth because they couldn't possibly be as tough one at a time, but I guess George here has just proved me wrong."

Charlie made a little bow to George—a few more laughs rose and fell—and then he began recounting incidents from the twins' younger years, from the time they turned Ron's teddy bear into a giant spider, to a camping trip where they set the forest on fire, to an incident where they had snuck cockroach clusters into the cookies Mrs. Weasley was baking.

"In the end, as I understand it, Fred died happy, because our family was back together," said Charlie. Percy's entire face was buried in his hands. "He died defending the people he loved. All this proves that Fred was not only an exceptionally talented wizard, but that even though he and George sometimes got carried away with their pranks, they loved their family, and their friends, fiercely."

Perhaps to cover up the sniffing and sobs, another smattering of applause broke out as Charlie came back down. George took a deep breath, stood, twiddled the feather on the Headless Hat he held, and jumped up on the podium.

"Right, you lot," he said. "I know dad said I had 'prepared remarks' but the truth is, there's really nothing I can say to sum up the life of Fred. It's always been 'Fred and George', hasn't it? But now it's just 'Fred', and it's just 'George', isn't it?"

There was a silence punctuated only by sniffs and the occasional pop from George's ear.

"I could give you a detailed account of our journey to greatness, list all the noble virtues we possess and how we came by them…." George smirked as his friends cheered him on. "But since we're pretty much identical, I'll save you the earful." Several more bits of popcorn ejected themselves; Harry thought he saw some fall atop Fred's body and get attacked by the Lipstick Lilies. "I'd much rather hear from you. If anybody has a joke to tell, anything to say about Fred, for Fred, or against Fred, now's your chance. Just step on up here after me. I'll start, then."

He cleared his throat. "First off, Freddy, you've left me an awful lot to live up to, you git," George said conversationally. "Who in the world _actually_ dies laughing?"

Harry smiled a bit despite himself, and heard Lee hiccup into his hand, laughing or crying. It was weird how the crowd fluctuated between mirth and misery so quickly.

"How am I supposed to outdo that? Well, I'll show you. I'll be running the joke shop without you from now on. And it'll be better than ever."

There was a silence, and Harry's eyes went back to George, whose face was suddenly unrecognizable. He only got one glimpse of a mouth distorted with anguish—then George's head was gone again, made invisible by the hat.

There was a silence for a moment as George stood there, headless, hands clenched, gathering himself. Just as Mrs. Weasley got up from her seat to try and usher him off the platform, he shrugged her off and patted her.

"No, mum, I'm fine, let's not lose our heads," he said, then put his hands on his hips and turned to face the crowd again.

"I've got to live for both of us now. We'll keep the jokes coming like you never left. But I'll miss you Freddy. We'll all miss you. All these laughs today, they're for you."

A sad sound from Ginny made Harry remember she was sitting by him. He put his arm around her shoulders and she held onto his wrist with a clammy hand.

Everyone seemed to come up after that, and they all had something to say, even if it was just a short memory or a joke. As each came up to share their memories, George flicked his wand, transfiguring the speaker, usually to roars of startled laughter. Mrs. Weasley, her head suddenly covered in black, spiked hair, bawled out her guilt over pressuring the twins to be respectable people, and said she hoped George never changed. Percy, nose hairs waving like long tentacles, seemed too upset for words and simply said he was proud to be the brother of Fred and George. Ginny, apparently sufficient in her spider costume, echoed Charlie's sentiments and talked about how protective they were of her, just like older brothers ought to be, even if it was a bit annoying sometimes. As she left, bits of silky thread momentarily got her stuck to the platform. Bill, with foot-long fingernails, said he wished he had spent more time with the twins.

"I never said thank you for cheering me up on my birthday," Angelina sobbed. "And now I'll never get a chance. You're gone."

"'e was a very clever boy." Fleur, to her credit, acted as if she hadn't noticed her ears enlarge to thrice their normal size. "Eet is a shame 'e may never know 'ow much 'is friends loved him. Au revoir, Fred."

"I know you can't hear me," said Dean, through an enormous furry mustache. "But here's a joke for you anyway, Fred. A goat, a peacock, and a house-elf walk into a bar…."

Luna, whom George left alone, recited a nice but bewildering little poem about catching plimpies, and Hermione, with hair in Rita Skeeterish blonde curls, managed to choke out a terrible dentist's joke.

"Hogwarts wouldn't have been the same without them," she finished.

Neville began to approach the stand, but Muriel pushed past him first. Without a moment's hesitation, George transfigured her arms into bright pink wings, and a colorful curved beak sprouted from her face. Mrs. Weasley gasped in horror, so George fumbled to set it right.

"How dare you!" Muriel, humiliated and enraged, a few feathers caught in her hair, screeched, "I have nothing to say but this! I hope his death serves to put some sense back into your heads! Your forefathers would be ashamed of the spectacle that has been made here! Respect? _R__espect__!_" She shook her fist at Mr. Weasley, who looked quite frightened. "My foot! This is the most disrespectful group of people I have ever been a part of in my entire life—and I am one hundred and eight!"

And she left the stand without further ado and strode away from the crowd, presumably to a distance where she could _respectfully_ disapparate.

"Auntie!" Ginny moaned, and followed her out of sight, her ample limbs bobbing after her.

"Well," Neville said, stepping onto the platform "Personally, I think Fred would be proud."

"'Ear 'ear!" George called. "For that, Neville, you get a really good one."

He waved his wand and Neville's hair turned long, golden, and silky.

"Wow…" Neville spun around to look at himself. "How do I look, Gran?"

"Beautiful, like your mother," Mrs. Longbottom said matter-of-factly, and with a perfectly straight face. There was a round of chuckles.

"Brilliant," he grinned. "Well, I just wanted to say that the Weasleys are some of the best people I know. And some of the bravest, too. I fought with 'em, I know, I saw. I'm sure plenty of you have already heard that Mrs. Weasley here, she took on Bellatrix Lestrange single-handedly!" Mrs. Weasley fanned herself with a tearstained _In memory of Fred Weasley_ booklet. "And it's the same with the rest of them. Bravest people in the world. Fred and George, nothing ever kept them down for long, not Death Eaters, not Umbridge—" Several cheers came from the Hogwarts students in the crowd. "Nothing!"

He stepped off the platform to a short applause, nearly tripping on his luxurious golden locks. Harry felt himself rise from his seat and walk out onto the platform. The crowd went silent. He looked across the rows of tearstained faces, so many of which were his own close friends and classmates.

"Before I say anything," Harry began, "I want to say that what I'm about to tell isn't about me, even though it's something I experienced alone. I am able to stand here today because of what the Weasleys have done for me. I hope that I might be able to one day repay them, and I hope that this experience I'm going to share is helpful to all of Fred's family, friends, and admirers."

Harry ignored all of the curious looks and focused on the front row where the Weasleys sat. Most of all, he looked at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who were holding hands and leaning against each other.

Harry took a deep breath. "The night of the battle, when I went into the forest, I..."

Everyone was looking at him in rapt attention, some, it seemed, in spite of themselves, and a few began whispering to their neighbors.

"Well, Voldemort's killing curse didn't rebound that night. It hit me, and for several minutes—I don't know how many—I'm sure that I was dead."

Hermione gasped and Ron looked at him incredulously. They were probably both wondering why he hadn't mentioned this yet, and Harry felt a little bit guilty at that.

"But when I died, it was a wonderful feeling. I was somewhere bright and clean, and my aches and fears seemed distant or entirely gone. Some of you might not believe me, but I found out that I was at a midway point between life and death. And I knew this because it was... it was Professor Dumbledore who told me. He came to speak to me, because it seems that I was at the place where the living and the dead can meet. And he told me that I could either come back here, which is, er, a story for another time, or I... I could go on. And the point I'm trying to make," Harry rushed on, "is that Fred is somewhere great now. He's with Professor Dumbledore and Sirius and Lupin and my dad. Everyone remembers my dad and Sirius as being a pair of pranksters so them and Fred'll get on great. I know that they're still out there, they didn't just disappear, and we'll all see Fred again."

Harry blinked a few times to ward off the threat of tears at the thought of Fred having a good laugh with his dad and Sirius. He didn't want to look at the crowd anymore for fear of meeting looks of skepticism or annoyance, so he looked at the hem of Ron's nightgown instead.

"Dumbledore said at that time to not pity the dead, but pity instead the living, especially people who don't have love in their lives... it seems that from the crowd that's gathered here on account of Fred, we can at least be confident that love is something we are not lacking."

He stepped off the platform to a scattered applause and more plenty of whispers, but was glad that he had finally shared that with the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley stood up and hugged him, transferring a warm trail of tears to his cheek in the process.

"Always knew there was something beyond, Nick once said—" she choked and drew up her already saturated handkerchief.

Mr. Weasley put a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of warm thanks.

Harry finally looked at the crowd's faces again and saw most eyes were still on him. In an effort to take himself out of the spotlight, he headed back instead toward the building to find where Ginny had gone off to in her pursuit of Muriel.

He stepped into the room, dark after the bright summer sun. There were tables laden with covered platters and dishes, and off to another side was a brightly colored display of merchandise from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. As he swept the rest of the room for the sight of Ginny, several loud cracks and pops erupted from beyond the walls. Harry whirled around as flashes of red and green flared through the windows, and his pulse seemed to go into overdrive.

_No, no, NO!_ His head screamed at him as he violently ripped out his wand, but before he could make it to the door, he was knocked off his feet.

"—_can't have thought it would be so simple_," a voice said.

Harry froze.

"_Well, you know how everyone trusts the boy."_

"_Indeed. This will be to my advantage. Now, nobody expects..._"

The voices came as if from a poorly tuned radio, or as though they had to travel through a vent to reach him from a distant place.

Harry gasped for breath as he struggled to push himself to a defensive position but his arms would barely cooperate. He didn't need to hear clearly to recognize that voice. He strained to hear more but the voices could no longer be heard over the deafening sound of explosions coming from outside. As he brushed his fingers over his scar, which disturbed him for its lack of pain and thus warning, his worst fears were threatening to send him into a catatonic state. The Horcruxes... all the work, effort, sacrifices which had been paid to destroy them...

It hadn't been enough.

He finally threw himself back onto his feet and ran for the exit with his wand gripped firmly in his hand.

It hadn't been enough...

This couldn't be.


	4. A Slew of Unanswerable Questions

**Chapter Four – A Slew of Unanswerable Questions**

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

People were screaming as Harry's trainers hit the grass outside. The colored blurs of light continued streaking, but they were above ground—for a moment Harry thought he saw, through a flash of flames, the sinuous snake-tongue of the Dark Mark floating green in the sky, and felt a terrible dread.

Jets of red light flew crazily in every direction as Harry pounded across the even ground, weaving around headstones. Everyone was on their feet; some chairs had been tipped over by the chaos, but Harry could not see the enemy anywhere. He was close enough to make out some of the guests' faces now, and they were contorted, laughing, or with their eyes gone round, their mouths open in shock—Ginny broke out of the crowd, bright red hair and brown spider-legs whipping out and smacking against an old woman's face. Harry had to skid to a halt to keep from crashing into her.

"Sorry, Mrs. Bobbins!" Ginny yelled, and turned to Harry. "Did you see the look on mom's face? She's going to go ballistic on me later!" Mrs. Bobbins watched them with a scandalized look.

"Gi—Ginny—" Harry panted, confused at her giddy voice and expression. Her grin slowly faded.

"Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry saw another whip-like flash of green to his right and instinctively tracked its path—but it curved away from the crowd, up, and he saw that it was the tail of a huge, sparkling dragon made of green stars, floating and curling above the crowd, snapping its jaws at the scarlet rockets and violently orange pinwheels which kept spinning in front of its face.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice broke through his shock.

He looked at her face; she seemed disturbed by his behavior. His panic was ebbing a little at the realization that no one had dropped dead and the screams were screams of delight, but he could not laugh at his mistake after what he had just heard. He caught sight of Ron and Hermione just then and heard George calling everyone to order.

"—Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-bangs! Yes, yes, take your seats, you can talk to me at the luncheon about getting a Basic Blaze Box as long as Ginny doesn't set off the rest of our stock!"

"Sorry," Harry said distractedly, dodging around Ginny's outstretched hand. "I've just got to—I'll be back in a minute—"

He ran after Ron and Hermione, bowling through the crowd, unconscious of who he bumped into. This could not wait. The only thing keeping him from shouting to the entire assembly was that there was still a chance—perhaps what he'd heard didn't mean what he thought it did. He hardly dared hope.

"I've got to talk to you, both of you, right now." Harry hissed into their ears, grabbing their elbows.

"Oh there you are, Harry," Ron said. "Where did you go? You missed it, Mum was—hey, stop pulling!"

"What is it?" Hermione stumbled over someone's foot. "Sorry—ouch! Slow down, Harry!"

"Where are we going? We're going to miss the burial!"

"Just hurry up!" Harry was nearly frantic, trying to keep his mind open, in case the voices spoke again, divulging more information, telling him how this had happened after all the sacrifices, all the steps they had taken….

They reached the building and Harry pulled them around behind it into a small rose garden.

"What's going on?" Ron demanded. "This had better be—"

"I'm hearing voices again. Just now, I heard Voldemort's voice in my head."

"_What?_"

What blotchy color was in Ron's cheeks instantly drained away, and Hermione's face seemed to freeze up.

"Harry," she said, in a kind of forced calm. "You know you_ can't_ really be hearing his voice… because he's dead. We all saw him die."

Logically, Harry knew that what she said made sense. He wanted to believe her, because it just couldn't be, and yet he instantly revisited the feeling of panic at seeing Voldemort's lifeless body. The lack of pain or even irritation in his scar confused him, infuriated him almost.

"What was he saying?" Ron asked in a terrified croak.

"I didn't catch very much." Harry paced a little in the gravel pathway. "He said something like, he couldn't believe it was so easy to fool us… 'everyone trusts the boy' and that's to his advantage—they were talking about me! Because everyone believes me now—well why wouldn't they, there were lots of witnesses, and his body _was_ there, but—" He froze, staring at Ron and Hermione, or past them.

"What?" Hermione stared back, unblinking. "But what? Who was he talking to?"

"Dunno." He brushed the question aside. "There must have been another Horcrux—but—" Harry instantly backtracked. "No. Otherwise—but if there was still one left..." Harry's mind was traveling too fast—what about what Dumbledore had said about his mother's blood? He began pacing again without noticing.

"What are you talking about?" Ron cried. "I thought You-Know-Who couldn't die if he still had at least one Horcrux, so how is it his body was lying in the castle for two days? It was obviously dead!"

"I suppose we don't know for certain that he only had six," Hermione said reluctantly. "But Ron's right, Harry, if that were the case—"

"He didn't stay in his body when he was beaten the first time," Harry pointed out. "When he killed my parents, it was only his body that died, but his soul… his soul…."

He hesitated—he had still not told Ron and Hermione about _why_ he had gone to face Voldemort alone, intending to die.

"Well, a piece of it went inside me, but the rest was drifting around until it found Quirrell…." Harry had a horrible image of some dark snakelike vapor still lingering somewhere in Hogwarts castle, waiting to attach itself to an unsuspecting student—or worse, a teacher.

"A piece of it went inside you?" Ron was gaping. "But then he really—he could have just possessed you like he did Quirrell!"

"No, he tried once but he couldn't do it." He ignored their amazed looks and explained impatiently. "I didn't just get some of his powers that night. He made me into a Horcrux by accident, he didn't even realize what he'd done—that's why I had to die, because then that last piece of him inside me would die too, but it wasn't enough, was it?" He clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles hard against the scar as if trying to make it burn, but he knew it was no use. If that thing under the seats had really been the piece of Voldemort that was in his soul, it was gone now, and so was his link to the rest of Voldemort's soul. A cold avalanche tumbled down his spine. What had he done? Now one of his biggest advantages was greatly diminished.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Hermione's voice brought him out of his thoughts. Her eyes were wide and damp, perhaps still from crying over Fred. "About dying and everything? I don't really understand how…."

He knew she was wondering how he was still alive. "Didn't know how to bring it up," he said. "And I didn't really want to talk about any of that… but Dumbledore explained that because Voldemort used my blood to resurrect himself, our lives were linked, which is why, since he was still alive, I was able to come back after he killed me—"

Harry stopped his pacing and stared blankly at the shrubbery behind his friends, his palms turning clammy. _Why_ had he not seen it before?

"It must work both ways. I'm still alive, and that made it so he could come back. If he can talk, he must have got another body… or he's possessing someone else."

"Harry, wait." Hermione's hand was on his arm. "This is all assuming that he really is still alive—but—"

"Why else would I be hearing his voice?" Harry shook her off, looking between her and Ron. He was vaguely aware of a trembling in his fingers, and he tried to relax the grip on his wand, but it didn't help. "Think I've finally gone mental, do you?"

"But he just can't be back." Ron's voice cracked desperately. "Not after everything… everyone…." His face crumpled and Hermione gripped his hand worriedly.

"I don't want to believe it either, Ron, but we can't be like Fudge or any of those other fools who wouldn't believe it the first time he came back." Harry kept his voice low, trying not to snap. He understood what Ron was feeling—to find this out at Fred's funeral, when they had been comforting themselves by the victory he had died for, was almost unbearable.

Ron was incapable of speaking, and it took Hermione a moment to look at Harry again.

"I don't think you've gone mad, Harry," she said quietly, over the muffled sounds Ron was making. "But are you sure it wasn't just an old memory? You know, from… from one of the other times you've heard him talking before?"

"No, it wasn't a memory," Harry said. Though part of him wondered why it had come through so faintly, he told himself it was because Voldemort must be weak—and Harry remembered how intense grief removed him from his visions of Voldemort's mind. It had kept Voldemort from possessing him after Sirius had died, and grief over Dobby had diminished the rage he'd felt through him when they'd escaped from Malfoy Manor.

"Is your scar hurting?" Hermione asked.

"No," he said impatiently, "but that's because the part of Voldemort that was inside me died when I did!"

"But if it's gone, you shouldn't be able to hear what he's saying." Hermione was looking at him as if embarrassed.

Harry paused, flummoxed. Part of him wanted to get angry at Hermione for not believing him, but he was unable to argue with her logic.

Just then he heard footsteps on gravel and saw one of the members of his guard round the corner—a younger man with long blonde sideburns.

"There you are! The others were getting nervous for a moment, but I knew you wouldn't have gone far." He caught sight of Ron, who was still struggling to control his tears. "Well, just checking up."

He moved back out of sight, presumably to give Ron some privacy, but Harry knew they couldn't continue their conversation.

"We'll talk later, when we get back," he whispered to the others, and, slinging an arm around Ron's shoulder, joined Hermione in leading him back toward the graveside.

As Fred's casket was closed and lowered into the grave, Harry stood by Ron, struggling to focus only on what was happening, on how Ron's resolve not to cry seemed to have been viciously smashed, but his mind could not be wrenched away from what he had heard. _This will be to my advantage. Now, nobody expects…._He was certain he had never heard anything like this in his previous visions, was certain it could mean nothing other than that Voldemort was currently out there somewhere, reveling in the fact that every single witch and wizard in Britain believed him gone for good—it would make everything so much easier. _Not every single witch and wizard_, Harry thought. But how had he heard the voices at all?

As the grave was filled and they all shuffled into the building to enjoy the prepared luncheon, he barely managed to carry on disjointed small talk with the people he knew from Hogwarts. Did Voldemort have another Horcrux, or was it something else entirely?

"I believe you," Luna said, abruptly breaking into his chain of thought.

"You—you do?" Harry stared at her, thinking for a moment that she referred to his belief that Voldemort was back—but how could she know what he was thinking?

"Of course. I know you wouldn't lie, not even to make your friend Ron feel better." Luna looked over at Ron, who was sitting with his older brothers, staring at a piece of ham on his plate as if he were still staring at Fred's body. "He's very sad, isn't he? I wonder if his brother and my mother will meet each other."

"Oh." Harry realized she was talking about what he had said at the podium. That already seemed like it had happened hours ago. "Yeah."

"It is still very lonely, not being able to see them for so long," Luna said thoughtfully, and drifted over to Ron.

Neville came up and expressed his thanks for what Harry had said, and Percy kept staring at Harry whenever he passed the table where Harry sat in silence with Hermione, Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Harry was mechanically making his way through a very small bunch of grapes when Hermione leaned over and whispered, "I think I ought to go sit with Ron… he… well…."

"Yeah," Harry said, glancing over, but at that moment, Ron stood up and headed out of the room. Harry and Hermione rose at the same time and followed him through a little hallway to the door of the men's room. They shared a glance before Harry pushed open the door and walked in.

Ron was pulling tissue paper out of the holder on the wall and blowing his nose vigorously between sobs. Harry wondered if it had been a mistake to follow him—perhaps Ron just wanted to be left alone. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat.

"D'you, uh… er…." _Are you okay_ was the only thing Harry could think to ask, but it was obvious Ron was not okay. "I'm sorry," he said instead, and thought that was just as lame.

Ron blinked at him through watery, bloodshot eyes, gave a horrific sniff, and wiped his nose with the tissues. "'S nod your fauld." His voice was nearly incomprehensible. "Lige mum says, weren' for you, we mighd all be dead…."

"D'you want to be left alone?" Harry asked. "Or d'you..."

Ron blew his nose again with a disgusting gurgling noise, but afterward spoke much more clearly. "I'll be fine in a minute, just give me a minute…."

"Okay." Harry hesitated a moment, then went back out.

"Well?" Hermione asked, her arms folded tightly and her eyebrows knit. "Is he alright?"

"He said he just needs a moment."

They stood there in the hallway. It was dim and quiet—they could hear the sounds of talking from the luncheon, but for the present time they were alone. For a brief moment, the reality of where he was sat upon Harry and he found himself struggling, his thoughts on the Weasley's loss and Voldemort's return melting together….

If he had only understood it all sooner, his need to face Voldemort alone, he could have prevented so many people from dying. But then, would it really have worked? At least his willingness to die had protected those who were left, those who were here today, but if Voldemort could get around truly dying in that final duel, who was to say he couldn't get around this magic as well? And they probably weren't all safe from the Death Eaters, but just from Voldemort himself….

Suddenly, he knew.

"My blood!" He turned to Hermione. "It's my blood, I don't need to be a Horcrux."

"What?"

"That's why I can still hear him," Harry said, nearly whispering in case a member of his guard was just out of sight. "But my scar doesn't hurt. The scar was from when that piece of him latched onto me, so it's not part of the connection anymore. But Voldemort and I are still connected by blood."

"But…." Hermione twisted her hands. "That… I mean, having a piece of Voldemort's soul in you is one thing, being able to feel his emotions and hear his thoughts makes sense in that case, but when it's blood and Voldemort's body was killed—it was his body that had your blood in it, not his soul."

Harry couldn't help feeling frustrated. "I don't know then! All I know is that I heard him. It was definitely him. I don't know how or why. The most important thing is that he's not gone, and he's banking on us thinking he is."

Hermione opened her mouth to say more, but just then, Ron emerged from the bathroom, not looking much better than when Harry had walked in. Still, he seemed to have regained some measure of control.

"I can't wait for today to be over," he groaned. "I feel like… like…."

Apparently, what Ron felt like was too ghastly and painful to put into words, so he merely grunted and grimaced after gesturing vaguely a few times.

After returning to the luncheon, Harry only sort of agreed with Ron. The last thing he wanted right now was to be forced to talk—about the Weasley's loss, about his experience with death, about whether anyone had succumbed to the power of the Tragumpuses… and yet he was terrified of when there would be no more distraction from the pain which sat like a rock in his chest. He left the room and re-entered several times, unable to tell where he wanted to be, escaping to the quiet to try and listen for more insights into Voldemort's survival. No voices came.

The funeral had taken on a different tone to him. It was not over after all. Unless he could find out what Voldemort was up to and stop him before he got too powerful, this would not be the last funeral of someone he knew. He was sure Voldemort would want to kill everyone who had gotten in his way, just as he had cleared away Dumbledore and all the others. Harry tried to console himself with the fact that if Voldemort had merely survived by way of an unknown Horcrux, he remained as vulnerable as Harry had thought him to be at their last battle. But there was too much uncertainty—Harry didn't know for sure whether another Horcrux was involved at all, nor where to find this last one if there was. He tried thinking of the protection he'd given his friends by his willingness to die for them, but it didn't work. He felt afraid and dirty once again, a marked man who would bring only suffering to the people around him.

The room swam before his eyes—he felt he might be sick, and laid his head down on the table, hidden in his arms. Bile was rising in his throat, along with an urge to cry like Ron had done, but then he felt a hand touch his back and looked at Ginny's worried face. If Voldemort really was at large, he couldn't afford to be weak—he had to focus on a solution. Crying would not prevent more people from dying. Focusing on his fears would not keep them from coming to pass.

"Guess the fireworks didn't cheer you or Ron up much, did they?"

"It was a great idea," Harry managed to say, but his attempt at forcing a smile only made him remember Mr. Weasley's expression during his opening speech, and the sick feeling came back in another wave. "I'm just not feeling well."

He knew he should tell Ginny, but now was not the time. Later, when he was feeling more up to talking about it—it was the same excuse he'd made about returning the Elder Wand. But now, he realized, at least it was not simply lying in Dumbledore's tomb where Voldemort could easily steal it again.

"I know what you mean," Ginny was saying. "I haven't felt properly warm all day, even in this silly thing." She looked down at her spider costume.

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

At last, the funeral was over. Harry's chance to tell the crowd of what he'd heard had passed, but Harry had convinced himself it wasn't so urgent that he could bring himself to disrupt this one day they all had together. If Voldemort were going to strike today, Harry would have had some further indication… unless—and Harry's stomach squirmed at the thought—Voldemort had realized they still bore a connection and had stopped himself from giving more away.

After arriving at the Burrow, Harry headed straight for Ron's room to drop off the items George had awarded him with for his yellow eyebrow, which, unbeknownst to him, George had further bewitched to flash colors like a string of Christmas lights. It was only a small package of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and a pair of Decoy Detonators, but Harry was grateful he'd been allowed to choose something useful. Ron had gotten a fair load too for his flowery nightdress, and together they collapsed onto their respective beds. Hermione followed them in and sat on the floor.

"Do you think we ought to tell Dad?" Ron startled Harry by bringing the subject up first. He looked over; Ron was frowning at the trick quill he was turning in his fingers.

"I thought I'd wait until tonight," Harry mumbled, looking at the floor. "Give him some time to just think about Fred…."

"Harry," Ron croaked. "That's nice of you and all, but if You-Know-Who's still out there, one of us could be next. Mum, or Percy, or Ginny—"

"I don't think he's going to attack anyone today—I'd probably feel it, er… or hear it, somehow."

"Have you tried looking into his mind?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded. "I can't. Or at least, I haven't been able to yet. But I think he must be weak… and maybe it doesn't work the same now that his piece of soul's not in me."

"Tell me again what he said." Ron leaned forward intently.

"He said something like… 'can't have thought it would be so easy'… he was referring to killing him, we can't have thought he would be destroyed so easily." Harry paused. "And… that it was to his advantage that everyone trusts me, because now 'nobody expects….'"

"You don't think…" Ron's voice was in a hoarse whisper. "You don't think maybe he _meant_ to die? To let his body die, I mean? So everyone would believe he was dead, but he could come back later." His eyes went wide. "What if he plans to get his body back?"

"The Ministry would have disposed of it by now," Hermione said nervously. "Wouldn't they?"

"What if they can't?" Ron asked. "I mean, it's not a normal body, is it?"

"If he still had some sort of connection to it, that would explain how I can still hear his thoughts," Harry said, feeling sick. "But—"

"I'm sure we would have heard about it if someone had broken into the Ministry and stolen the body!" Hermione stared at them both. "That wouldn't be something they would hide, especially now that Kingsley's in charge."

"Yeah, and Kingsley seemed to be concerned about keeping it safe from any Death Eaters who might try to steal it, so it'll be guarded by some enchantments at least." Harry blew out a sigh. "But maybe it would be better to tip Kingsley off, just in case."

There was a silence, and Harry turned to Hermione, whose brow was furrowed as if she were working on a particularly difficult essay question.

"You've been awfully quiet, Hermione. What do you think we should do?"

"What?" she looked up. "Well something about this just isn't making sense… I feel like we must be missing something."

"Just because we don't have all the pieces doesn't mean it's not true! Volde—"

"Don't!" Ron squeaked. "If he's back, we shouldn't say—"

"We've been saying it for the past few days and nothing's happened," Harry pointed out. "I said it at the funeral and nothing happened!"

"But still, you never know when he might jinx it again! Please?"

"Fine," Harry relented. "_You-Know-Who_… obviously we underestimated him. He had backup plans that even Dumbledore might not have known about. I don't think Dumbledore even realized I'd been made into a Horcrux until close to the end of his life."

Dumbledore. A burning longing to see him, to talk to him, made Harry want to double over. Dumbledore would have known the best way to proceed.

"Maybe we ought to go back to Hogwarts tomorrow," said Harry. "And talk to Dumbledore's portrait again… maybe he can help us figure out what he's up to."

"I suppose it's worth a try," Hermione said uncertainly. "If McGonagall will let us."

"Of course she will, if we tell her what's going on. Besides, she told me to stop by her office if I ever needed to talk about anything."

"But how are we going to get there?" asked Ron. "Mum and Dad won't let you go without an escort."

"We're just going to Hogwarts," said Harry, feeling a bit exasperated. "We can Apparate to just outside the boundaries, it's not any more dangerous than being here without extra protection."

"Well, I think…" Hermione hesitated, looking torn. "I think we should tell someone right away… even if it turns out to be a false alarm—"

"It's not a false alarm!" Harry said.

"I didn't say it was, Harry, but even if it is, I'm sure it's better safe than sorry, and the Ministry should know so it can prevent anything from happening…."

"Alright," Harry said, glancing at Ron, who gulped and nodded. "We'll tell Ron's dad. I'll do it."

He got up and left the room, and they followed him out. A nervous shiver ran through his gut—beyond not wanting to spur another reaction like Ron's, what if Mr. Weasley didn't believe him? _He has to_, Harry thought desperately. Every person who didn't believe it was playing straight into Voldemort's plan.

They descended the stairs in a silence entirely unnatural to the Burrow. All they could hear were the soft jazzy tones of Mrs. Weasley's favorite singer. Harry entered the living room and saw her staring through the piece of knitting on her lap—she looked up as he cleared his throat.

"Oh, Harry dear. What is it?"

"D'you know where Dad is?" Ron asked.

"He's in the bedroom, but don't go disturbing him," Mrs. Weasley said sternly. "He's finally getting some rest, poor thing, I've told him all this work would catch up to him sooner or later… and after today…."

Harry glanced at Ron, who wore a helpless frown. They turned into the kitchen.

"We'll just have to wait until he wakes up," Harry whispered.

"We could tell Mum," Ron suggested.

"How do you think she would take something like that right now?"

Ron grimaced. "Good point."

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

Waiting for Mr. Weasley to wake up turned out to be much harder than Harry expected. Everyone seemed to be keeping to themselves after spending the first part of the day at the crowded funeral, and in the resulting silence, Harry found it hard to keep his fears from spiraling out of control. His mind would not rest, but continued to try to puzzle out exactly where Dumbledore's usually perfect guesswork had gone faulty. Whenever he managed to pull out of these thoughts, he found himself wondering instead who would be the next victim and how soon the Daily Prophet would be printing more deaths and disappearances.

Some hours later, when the sun was gradually approaching the horizon, Harry could not stand staring at the wall any longer and went out into the yard. The patchy clouds of earlier had cleared up. Harry stared down the rough lane that led to the Burrow and thought of how he, Ron, and Hermione had made plans to leave a year ago. Would it be wise to distance himself from the Weasleys again? Would that keep them safe, even now that they had been directly involved in the battle at Hogwarts? Or would leaving them now be seen as running away, a bid to save himself?

Then again, had he and Dumbledore both been wrong about their connection this entire time? Was the truth, in fact, that he and Voldemort would both have to die together, otherwise they would both keep returning, unable to rest…? He pushed this theory to the back of his mind, preferring to believe for the moment that it was something as simple as an unknown Horcrux.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to forget his surroundings and his anxiety, hoping if he emptied his mind that, rather than being closed off from Voldemort's thoughts, he would be able to hear them more easily. _Where are you?_ Just one glimpse, one whisper, might give him a perfect clue. He waited, focusing as he had never focused before, blocking out the distant birds and rustlings in the garden. There was nothing.

After several minutes, he gave up and went back inside. Ron and Hermione were just inside the door, and Ron nodded toward the kitchen, where Mr. Weasley was spreading jam on toast with a distant expression. Together they walked up to the counter, and Harry took a deep breath.

"Mr. Weasley?"

Mr. Weasley stared at Harry for a moment, as if needing time for his eyes to adjust. A blob of jam dripped off his knife and onto the floor, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Oh. Harry. I'm sorry, did you want to get at the toaster?" He made to move aside, and started when the jam on his toast began slipping onto his hand.

"No, thank you," Harry said. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about something important."

"Something important?" Mr. Weasley lifted his shoe, having just stepped in the blob on the floor. "Oh…."

Harry looked over at Ron as Mr. Weasley bent to wipe up the mess. He could tell they were both wondering if Mr. Weasley was in any better state to hear this news than Mrs. Weasley, but Harry knew he had to tell _someone._

"Will you come outside with us?" he asked once Mr. Weasley had finished.

"Yes, let's go," Mr. Weasley said and followed them out, taking a few small bites of his toast.

Once they shut the door behind them, Harry looked up at the windows. There was one open in an upper floor, perhaps George's bedroom. He led the way out to the edge of the garden before turning back to face Mr. Weasley, who finally seemed to be focusing better.

"What's this all about, Harry?" he asked. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes." Harry looked at Hermione and Ron again, and decided to plunge in just as he had with them. "You were right about it not being safe yet. I don't think Vol—er, You-Know-Who—I don't think he's completely gone."

Mr. Weasley dropped the toast which he had been about to take a bite of in the dirt. He barely spared it a glance. "What—Harry, why—how can that _be?_ Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be until I see him face-to-face. I heard his voice again, and he was telling someone how he's counting on the fact that everyone thinks he's dead. Maybe he even expected this to happen."

"…still alive?" Mr. Weasley's voice was faint, his mouth open as if waiting for other words to come out.

"Yes."

"When did this happen? When did you hear it?"

"At the funeral," said Harry. "While Ginny was setting off the fireworks."

"But we have his body at the Ministry!"

"I know. We think he left his body, like he did after he tried to kill me when I was a baby, so maybe he plans to get it back somehow. He might be possessing someone else in the meantime."

"Who?"

"No idea," Harry said regretfully.

Mr. Weasley said something under his breath, a hand over his eyes, and Harry thought he caught a curse word or two. Then he straightened and looked at them each in turn with sudden fierce intent.

"You, all of you, you stay here! I'm going to the Ministry to—I'll try to be back straight away, you can tell your mother where I've gone."

He fished his wand from his pocket, turned on the spot and vanished.

"Well, it's out of our hands now," said Hermione quietly. "But they've got to believe you, Harry. You're the one who beat him, you're the one who was right about everything all along!"

"Yeah, except I wasn't right about this, was I?"

"Anyone would have been fooled!" Ron protested. "Honestly, I still don't want to believe it…."

"At least this time we might have a head start, so we can stop him before he gets very far." Hermione spoke quickly, with forced optimism. "And the Ministry will stand behind you now, Harry, they've got to!"

Harry didn't reply. He was thinking of the dreams he'd had in his fourth year, where Voldemort had been little more than a voice hissing out from behind an armchair, yet still capable of torture and murder. Despite those warnings, he hadn't been able to predict what would happen in the graveyard. It had begun that night; he had been forced to watch someone die, the first of many, helpless to prevent it….

"It's no good unless we can find out what he's actually doing," Harry murmured. "Otherwise we're still one step behind him, and that's all he needs."

"We have one lead," said Ron. "If he's trying to get his body back, at least the Ministry will know to keep a closer watch on it now."

"But if he could get into the Ministry to try and steal the prophecy—"

"Harry, the Ministry was still denying he was back at that point. Things could be completely different this time!" Hermione looked at him beseechingly. "We can't get too hopeless now, it's only the beginning!"

Harry tried to push back the recurring wave of sickness. "I know," he said, staring at Hermione's shoelaces. "It's just… I thought it was the end."

To prevent her or Ron from seeing his face, Harry turned to go back inside.

"We'd better go tell Mrs. Weasley where he's gone."

**ˆˆ****ˆ**

After informing a confused and exasperated Mrs. Weasley of her husband's departure, Harry retreated to Ron's room, prepared for another unbearably long wait. He was in the middle of forcing himself to read Hermione's copy of _Gadding with Ghouls_ in the hopes it would make him laugh when someone knocked on the door.

It was George. "Hey, Harry. Dad says he and a few friends would like to talk to you downstairs straight away. Not _you_," he added, as Ron stood up too. "Just Harry." George gave Harry a curious look as he opened the door to let him through.

"Ron and Hermione are going to be hearing anything they tell me anyway," Harry said, and Ron sprang back off the bed to follow him out. Hermione hesitated, but joined them a moment later.

Together they went down to the kitchen, where Mr. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Professor McGonagall all stood waiting.

"Ron—" Mr. Weasley began.

"It's okay," Harry interrupted. "I asked them both to come with me."

"Very well," Kingsley said. "Harry, Arthur has informed me that you believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has somehow survived. Would you care to explain your theory?"

Harry took a moment to gather his thoughts, and began.

It was easier than he expected, even with all of Kingsley and McGonagall's questions. It helped that they had both seen Snape's memories in the Pensieve and witnessed the battle with Voldemort, but Harry had to recount in greater detail his experience with Dumbledore in the space between life and death. Hermione and Ron put in a comment or two as well. The astonished looks on their listeners' faces—especially Professor McGonagall's—made him nervous.

Finally, the questions began to slow down.

"Thank you for telling us this," McGonagall said, her face white but determined. "I hope you will inform me immediately of any further developments."

"The Ministry will do everything it can to block any move He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named makes," Kingsley said. "I hope you'll give us your support as well."

Harry nodded. "I believe the more people who know he's back, the better, since he's counting on us not knowing."

"I'm sure no one will like hearing it, but they'll be thankful if it means their families are safe." Kingsley folded his arms and heaved a great sigh. "As for the body, we were already planning on holding a gathering of witnesses while we dispose of it and the bodies of his followers. I think, considering the circumstances, we will reschedule it for tomorrow."

Relief made some of Harry's tension unwind, but at the same time he felt a terrible chill. "Could I be one of the witnesses?" He said it before he could think twice.

The question seemed to take them off guard. Harry looked Kingsley in the eye, unwavering. He could not miss this.

"I want to be there," he insisted, "and see for myself when it's destroyed. I won't feel right unless I see it for myself."

"I believe it would be appropriate." Kingsley nodded. "You can come in with Arthur tomorrow morning, then."

"Thanks." Harry turned to McGonagall next. "I'd like to talk to Dumbledore's portrait as soon as possible. He—it might know something about how You-Know-Who survived, something he didn't mention before."

"Well," McGonagall said, after a moment's hesitation. "I did say you were always welcome in my office, Harry."

"Great. I'll come by later tomorrow then?"

She nodded, though she looked troubled. "I can't imagine Dumbledore didn't tell you everything he suspected. You certainly knew more than anyone else… but just the same. The password is 'Veritaserum.'"

"Thanks, Professor."

Kingsley looked at his watch. "I've got a lot to do tonight. I must be getting back. You stay here," he added to Mr. Weasley, who had just grabbed his cloak off a chair. "And get some rest."

He gave Harry a keen look. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Potter. We might be needing your help a few more times before this is all over. Arthur." He nodded at Mr. Weasley. "Minerva." And then he was out the door.

"I must inform the other Professors at once," McGonagall said, "and strengthen the defenses around the castle. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

After her departure, Harry stood in the dim kitchen feeling faintly amazed himself. Part of him had expected the others to be disappointed in him, for he had failed to kill Voldemort. Everyone had believed in him and celebrated his apparent victory. Yet Kingsley and the others only expressed gratitude to Harry, and a firm resolve to prepare for the worst.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading! Please Review!


	5. Ministry and Mystery

A/N: Whew, sorry for the wait. Rae (our chief writer) had her last quarter of college this Fall. Now she is free to write without bothersome homework, so hopefully we can get chapters up more frequently.

This chapter is a little bit uneventful, but DON'T WORRY. Things are about to get veeeerry interesting for you Voldemort fans ,:L

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>It was easy to go to bed early. The Burrow was still, with no noise to keep Harry or Ron awake except the occasional moan from the ghoul in the attic. Hours later, Harry found himself staring at Ron's ceiling in the dawn's creeping light. He felt like he had been awake all night. Every time he closed his eyes, images began to wheel through his mind as across a dark theater screen: Voldemort rising from the cauldron; Voldemort's body in the Great Hall; his parents speaking to him; Cedric lying dead; Colin snapping pictures; Sirius throwing bones to Buckbeak; the basilisk; Ginny at Dumbledore's funeral; Dumbledore conjuring an armchair in the dungeon of the Ministry; Bellatrix and Sirius dueling; Ron attacked by brains—but Voldemort, always returning to Voldemort's cruel, triumphant face, his hungry red eyes fixed on a locket, on the Elder Wand, on Harry….<p>

The hands on Harry's watch seemed to move excruciatingly slowly. He tried to focus on them, to slow his mind's maddening spin; the next thing he knew, he was out of bed, dressed, and seated at the kitchen table. A bleary-eyed, dressing-gowned Mrs. Weasley tried to force six sausages onto his plate but Harry could not make it more than halfway through one. Finally, Harry stood before a newly lit fire in the fireplace, and Mr. Weasley was holding out the pot of Floo Powder with a weak smile.

"Nice and simple. Just say 'The Ministry of Magic.'"

A moment later, Harry emerged without incident onto the polished wood floor of the Atrium. Mr. Weasley bumped into his back and together they made their way toward the lifts on the other side. The hall was different from the last time Harry had seen it—then, he had been disguised as a very large and intimidating wizard, and there had been a grotesque statue of a witch and wizard sitting on thrones made from the naked bodies of muggles. This statue was gone, replaced by a roped-off area and a sign that read: "Renovation in Progress".

"Do I need to check my wand in like last time?" Harry asked.

"I don't imagine so," Mr. Weasley said, but nevertheless looked around uncertainly. Suddenly, a tall and nearly bald, middle-aged wizard called out. "Arthur! Mr. Potter!"

"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Weasley, as the man approached. "Harry, this is Dorian Cooper."

"_Very_ pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter," the man beamed. His face-splitting grin and enthusiastic handshake reminded Harry instantly of Ludo Bagman. "I'll be escorting you down to the, ah… the event." In a sidelong whisper he added: "Not exactly sure what we're calling it, the memo just said 'the disposal of the bodies' or some such like."

"I'll see you later, then, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "I'd better be getting to the office."

"Okay."

Mr. Cooper shook Mr. Weasley's hand and then turned back to Harry. "Well then, shall we head down? I'm sure you're quite as anxious as anyone to see this happen, after everything you went through to defeat them all—"

"I didn't defeat them all," Harry said. "Just Voldem—er, You-Know-Who." He barely stopped himself, thinking what a disaster it would be to summon some ill fortune in the middle of the Ministry Atrium.

"Well that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

They joined the line waiting for the lifts.

"But I didn't really kill him," Harry said, "and I couldn't have even done what I did if other people hadn't been fighting his Death Eaters and everything."

"You're as modest as the rumors say, Mr. Potter," Mr. Cooper said with a winning smile. Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets. Mr. Cooper's behavior was too cheerful to make Harry feel anything but annoyed in light of the imminent threat. He busied himself with looking around at the others gathered in front of the lifts—not a single Death Eater among them.

They stepped into the next lift with a couple of witches who were squabbling over an issue of the Daily Prophet.

"Excuse me, ladies, but we're going down," Mr. Cooper said pleasantly, and they both swung their heads around to look at him.

"Oh, sorry," said the one, while the other gasped and said, "Harry Potter!"

"Yeah," Harry said warily.

"My goodness, it's an honor—"

"We really have to be going," Mr. Cooper insisted. "Urgent business, can't keep the Minister waiting."

"Oh," said the enthusiastic witch, with a meaningful look at her friend. "Right, sorry, carry on then!" And she dragged the other out of the lift.

"We're going down?" Harry asked. "To the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes," said Mr. Cooper, suddenly solemn.

The lift clattered downward in eerie silence. Harry felt the first nervous flutterings in his rock-like stomach, though he told himself that after his last experience with the Department of Mysteries, there should be nothing frightening about this visit.

Several people were waiting for them when the lift opened into the cold, flickering torchlight. One of them was Kingsley Shacklebolt, wand drawn at his side.

"Severus Snape was to tell you about _the last Horcrux_—" Kingsley's voice slowed to emphasize those words slightly "—only after something changed between He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a special servant of his. Who was it?"

For a moment Harry was too taken aback by this abrupt hello to understand the riddle Kingsley was posing, but then after a moment's struggle he understood.

"Nagini," he said. "He started keeping her closer… he was worried about losing her."

Kingsley nodded and his stern expression relaxed a little. "It would be a shame for us to let an imposter in after guarding his body so heavily this whole time, wouldn't it? Mr. Cooper—"

While Kingsley affirmed the identity of Mr. Cooper, a few of the other people motioned to Harry to follow them down the hall. Harry assumed they must be Unspeakables, for they led the way confidently through the door which had haunted Harry's dreams his entire fifth year. Then they crossed the shining black floor of the circular room, and opened one of the many identical doors into a place Harry had never thought he'd see again.

The descending rectangles of stone benches led his eyes irresistibly downward, to the raised stone dais and crumbling, ancient archway in the middle of the room. He immediately noticed the bodies covered in dark cloths, arranged in rows on the floor. A few people sat uneasily on the lower benches, McGonagall among them. Kingsley's voice came from behind Harry.

"Only two more coming… they should be here shortly. Take a seat."

As Harry, stiff-kneed, approached the dais, he braced himself to feel another layer of loss at the reminder of Sirius's last moments, but the only thing he felt as he approached was fascination. Just on the other side of that tantalizing curtain, if he was not mistaken, was a place like where he had met Dumbledore. The mangled remains of the Horcrux which had been inside Harry could still be lying there beneath the seats, and a train could take Harry on to where Fred and Sirius were.

A hand eased onto his shoulder and suddenly he realized that the archway had become only a few paces away. A short, stern-looking Unspeakable steered him away toward where McGonagall was sitting.

"Good morning, Harry," she said without enthusiasm. Her eyes were fixed on the cloth-covered forms. "This should not take very long."

He sat down beside her and looked up at the entrance; the last two witnesses were coming to take their seats. Kingsley positioned himself next to a small three-legged table and faced the solemn spectators.

"This meeting has been called to witness the destruction of bodies belonging to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his deceased followers. As witnesses, all must give a written affirmation of what you see here, and before that, a written confirmation of your identity. To ensure that this is so, every person will write a statement of their identity using this quill."

Kingsley held up a rather plain black quill, pulled out a small piece of parchment, and wrote something on it in large letters. The parchment instantly began to smoke. When he held it up for the others to see, the ink had a cracked and oozing look, barely legible in spelling out the words: _Albus Dumbledore._

"As you can see, it will be obvious if anyone among us is telling a falsehood about their identity, or about what they see here. Please form an orderly line and proceed to write down who you are." Kingsley turned to a much larger piece of parchment and wrote something, then turned to begin ushering those nearest him to follow suit. The rustle of parchment and the scratch of the quill echoed around the silent room.

When the quill was passed to Harry, he looked at the neat rows of names beginning with _Kingsley Shacklebolt__, Minister of Magic_, and added his own: _Harry Potter_.

Once they all took their seats again, Kingsley and a few Unspeakables reviewed the list, and then moved to uncover the first of the bodies. The calm which had earlier descended upon Harry shattered at the sight of Voldemort's bloodless face. A noise like a brief gust of wind came from the other witnesses as some inhaled sharply.

_It's there._

He could not look away. The snakelike nose, the waxy skin—as someone shifted in front of Harry, he slid to the edge of his seat. The body was being levitated toward the archway by Kingsley. Harry felt ill with panic—the body must not go through the archway! Or if it did, he must go with it, guard it! He rose to his feet.

"—ry! _Harry__ Potter_."

_He will help me._

Harry wrestled forward as hands wrapped around his arms. The lifeless face was being licked by wisps of the ragged veil rippling in a nonexistent wind—

_Faster!_

The face was gone first, yet it was suddenly clear in Harry's mind—he tried to move toward it but he was rooted to the spot—the face loomed large in front of his own face, the red eyes opened—

"Mister Potter!" Kingsley's voice seemed to echo in Harry's skull, and the face suddenly vanished, giving way to Kingsley's. "Are you alright?"

"The body," said a voice, and Harry realized it was issuing from his mouth. "What have you done with the body?"

"It's gone. It went through the veil. You saw it."

An intense, savage spasm of euphoria went through Harry and he only just kept himself from laughing wildly. The euphoria was instantly drowned by terror that if he had let it out, that laugh would have been familiar, high, and cold.

The thin hands gripping his arms were Professor McGonagall's. He turned his head to see her face, chalky and thin-lipped. Behind her, the witnesses in the stands were staring at him.

"You saw it, didn't you, Harry?" Professor McGonagall whispered.

"Yes," said Harry. The room was coming back into focus, and he remembered watching the last inches of Voldemort's body disappear.

"Is there any reason to believe that this was not his body, or that it is not destroyed?" Kingsley asked seriously.

Slowly, Harry shook his head.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Kingsley added in an undertone.

Harry shook his head again.

Kingsley let Harry sit back down on the bench, then walked back to the table and pulled out another piece of parchment as if nothing had happened. "Before we proceed with the other bodies, I believe we should all verify that we have seen the body of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and witnessed that it was destroyed."

A murmur of uneasy assent went around the room, most eyes still on Harry. They were each instructed to copy the original sentence on the parchment and insert their own name. As Harry wrote it out, some part of him half-expected the ink to start smoking and cracking, showing that he had lied or was mistaken. _I, Harry Potter, bear solemn __testimony__ that __I __personally witnessed __the corpse of __Lord Voldemort__being held__ in possession of the Ministry of Magic__, and also witnessed in person that it was__ disposed of and destroyed__._

But the shaky letters dried on the parchment. The other bodies were uncovered and levitated through the archway without incident. Harry tried to summon some sense of satisfaction about seeing the body of Bellatrix Lestrange passing through the same veil she'd pushed Sirius through, but he felt only disorientation and fear.

He signed the last paper, verifying the disposal of the Death Eaters. It was almost a relief when McGonagall and Kingsley pulled him into an empty courtroom once they had reached the torch-lit corridor. He did not want to be singled out by the other witnesses.

"What happened?" McGonagall demanded. "Did you hear _him_? His voice?"

"I… I think so, but I'm not sure," said Harry. "And I definitely felt something… and I… I might have seen something."

"You were moving toward the archway very quickly," Kingsley said. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his otherwise composed face. "Why?"

"The archway exercises a considerable influence over certain people, isn't that true?" McGonagall's voice was brittle and sharp. "But was that all it was?"

"I've been drawn to the veil before," Harry confessed impatiently. "But this was different. When I saw his face, and his body was being moved toward the archway, I _had_ to stop the body from going through, or else go through with it. I felt desperate. And then I saw his face in my mind—his eyes were open—and it felt like he had grabbed me. But once the body was through, he—I—felt… really happy, for just a split second. And then—"

Kingsley and McGonagall exchanged alarmed looks.

"Do you believe you were feeling his emotions?" McGonagall asked.

"I don't know. I must have. Why would _I_ feel desperate to keep his body from being destroyed?" As Harry said this, he felt another irrational lurch of panic that he had let the body go without following it through.

McGonagall interrupted his thoughts. "So when you felt happy after his body was gone, we can assume those weren't _his_ feelings about it?"

"I don't know," said Harry numbly. "It wasn't like how I normally feel. It was more like him. For a minute, I thought maybe…."

He didn't want to finish, but Kingsley prompted him. "Yes?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I thought maybe he was going to try to possess me. But I don't think that's possible anymore." Even as he said it, ice water seemed to trickle down into his lungs and stomach. How could he know what was possible or not? If he could hear and feel Voldemort through whatever link they still shared, anything was possible.

"Did all of this occur before the body was disposed of?" asked Kingsley.

"Some of it was after. When I asked you what you did with the body, it was right after that—that was when I felt excited. Before that I still saw his face, and was trying to get to the archway."

"I came to you only seconds after the body passed through the veil," Kingsley said. "Perhaps those were only residual effects and the link is gone."

"I don't think so," Harry said. "And we'd better hope it hasn't or else there's no way we'll be able to keep ahead of him."

"But who is to say," McGonagall broke in, "that these feelings weren't exactly what he wanted you to feel? There would have been no other way for him to know what was going on except by reading your mind, and how else do you explain your urge to prevent the destruction of the body? If that is true, he is aware of the connection and could use it against you."

Kingsley shook his head. "It seems to me that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either wanted Harry to be locked up for interfering with this operation, or else killed by following the body through the veil. Failing that, he must not be depending on the survival of the body—perhaps the thrill Mr. Potter felt was because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named believes people will be off their guard now that he can no longer regain his old physical form."

"Or he's just trying to confuse me," Harry muttered, thinking that if that were the case, Voldemort was doing a good job. "I need to talk to Dumbledore's portrait."

McGonagall nodded. "Very well. We'll leave for Hogwarts immediately."

**ˆˆˆ**

The walk across the grounds, the greetings of one or two people he knew, the long explanation to Dumbledore's portrait of all that had occurred—all of this passed in a long blur. Finally, after going over the incident at the ministry again, Harry sat back in the chair across the desk and waited, hoping for an answer which would make sense of everything and show him the next step he should take.

The portrait-Dumbledore frowned at his own long-fingered hands, his blue eyes deeply troubled behind his half-moon spectacles. He turned his keen gaze back on Harry and said, "This is something I must confess I had not foreseen. Of course I always knew it was possible that Voldemort might have found other ways, perhaps even darker than Horcruxes—as impossible as that may sound. But was it probable? I hardly thought so."

"Do you think he just made an extra Horcrux or two we didn't know about?"

The portrait shook its head. "He was obsessed with the idea of six, if you remember, so that his soul would be in seven parts—seven being the most magically powerful number."

"But he made Nagini into a Horcrux," Harry pointed out.

"Ah, but at that point he knew that one of his Horcruxes had already been destroyed." The portrait smiled sadly. "The diary. Making Nagini into a Horcrux would have, to his mind, restored the balance to seven."

"But isn't an extra Horcrux the most likely explanation?" Harry insisted. "What if he realized we'd destroyed the ring, or the locket, and he made an extra Horcrux after that?"

The portrait was already shaking its head. "Again, possible, but improbable. There is nothing to suggest that Voldemort knew his Horcruxes were in danger until the last moment… unless there is something you have not told me, Harry?"

It came back to Harry then, the vision he'd had of Voldemort's shock and rage at the news that Gringotts had been broken into, and his precious cup stolen. The fear and disbelief that anyone could possibly know about his Horcruxes.

"No, sir, but couldn't he have made one after that point? All he had to do was kill someone. That's not exactly hard for him. He could have even done it when he killed Snape! How else could he have survived?"

Dumbledore's portrait paused in thought for a moment. "Perhaps you are correct, and he made one or more last-minute Horcruxes, or else he found some other method of keeping himself alive even as a broken and bodiless fraction of a soul. In the very worst case, your connection with him may have something to do with it. I'm afraid I was utterly convinced that there would be no connection once the Horcrux inside you was destroyed."

"You must know something!" Harry burst. He had been counting on Dumbledore's wisdom. "Even just a clue about what other ways there might be for him to stay alive, or why I can still hear his thoughts!"

The portrait spread its hands helplessly, and yet the gesture was almost like a motion of deference to Harry—those blue eyes were twinkling. "You have come to a point where your knowledge on this subject may even exceed my own."

"But—"

"You must remember, Harry; I am but an echo of myself. As such my knowledge and capacity for judging new situations is somewhat, shall we say… incomplete. All I can give you is advice on how to proceed."

Harry looked up at the portrait, feeling his strength drain from him. He had been so sure that Dumbledore would know something, some odd fact he had not thought important until recent events sparked some long-forgotten thought. But perhaps that sort of leap of memory and imagination was only possible for living, breathing people.

"What advice can you give me, sir?" Harry asked. He was suddenly so exhausted that the words came out slow and quiet.

"Only to do as I have always done. Look back on everything you know of him. Look for connections. I think I've known you long enough and well enough to say you have a knack for this. Perhaps once you find some, we can speak again, and I can be more helpful to you."

Harry sat, waiting for as long as he dared. If he could say just the right thing, give the portrait the proper clue, maybe then—but the one thing he hadn't said was also the thing he did not want to consider. Besides, McGonagall was still in the room, and had been listening from the beginning.

He stood and tried to inject some confidence into his voice. "I'll do that. Thanks."

"Good luck, Harry," the portrait said solemnly.

**ˆˆˆ**

After returning to the Burrow, and answering several rounds of questions about how his trip to the ministry had gone, Harry tried to follow Dumbledore's advice. He spent every spare moment torturously reliving his memories of the last seven years, consulting Hermione for details which might or might not have been important. Who knew whether Tom Riddle's deranged ancestry held any hints about unknown ways to cheat death? Who knew whether his status as Slytherin's heir was any advantage to him beyond giving him command of the Basilisk? And how could anyone tell whether the origins of his horrible infantile form prior to Cedric's death, or the brief attempt at possession in Harry's fifth year, had anything to do with being able to hear Voldemort's thoughts now that Voldemort no longer had that body?

"All I can think," Ron groaned with his face in a book two days later, "and this is totally mad—is that he had _two_ bodies. No, listen!" Hermione had groaned in turn. "He had one body, the one with Harry's blood in it, and then an extra body! And he could move between the two, so when Harry killed his extra one he went back into the first one. That would explain why they're still connected."

"Ron," Hermione sighed with forced patience. "But the whole point of having Harry's blood was so that he would be stronger, so he could kill Harry! Why would he have sent his weaker body out to the battle?"

"It was a decoy," Ron sniffed. "He meant it to die!"

"But—"

"No," Harry said slowly, feeling the hollow of his elbow where Wormtail had cut him. "I don't think he could have made a second body he could possess without using my blood for that too. It was part of the spell."

"So he made two then," Ron said. "Both with Harry's blood."

"And where would he have gotten more of Harry's blood?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know!" Ron snapped. "But if you would stop shooting down my ideas—"

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "Maybe Ron's right." He pressed on past Hermione's skeptical look. "Or close enough. You-Know-Who could control Inferi. What if he did have a decoy at the battle, something he created to look like himself? Is there much difference between that and controlling an Inferi?"

Hermione instantly began rummaging in her bag. "There is a difference, but it's true, I'm sure I've read about something like that before, at least in theory."

"But no," Harry's heart sank in disappointment. "I just remembered. The Ministry would have done all kinds of tests on the body, wouldn't they? Or at least examined it. If it was made of something unnatural they would have known."

"I'm not so sure." Hermione was still up to her elbow in the bag, causing bumping and clanking noises from within its recesses. "First of all, they might have expected it to be unusual, since it's not as if it was his original human body. In a sense he wasn't human at all really. And besides, I'm not sure if transfiguration is always easily detectable. This is You-Know-Who we're talking about—I'm sure he would know what he was doing if he did decide to make some sort of puppet to control in his fight with you. Oh, where _is _it? It's not in there!" She withdrew her arm with a defeated sigh. "I really _have_ to reorganize this…."

"We could be on the completely wrong track, anyway," Harry muttered.

"But it's important to look into any leads we have." Hermione's brow furrowed and Harry realized he was rubbing his forehead again, even though it didn't sting. He quickly put his hand down. He did feel a bit of a headache coming on in his temples.

"What d'you mean?" Ron asked Harry. "Did you think of something that makes more sense? Because honestly this is all insane rubbish… too bad it's probably all possible for someone like _him_."

"Not really," Harry said, and it felt like a lie even though in his opinion none of this situation made any sense at all.

**ˆˆˆ**

The next few weeks seemed unbelievably long and drawn out, and as each sleepless night transitioned into the next dark early morning amid muddled dreams and memories, each of Harry's days were full of much the same kinds of images and anxieties as haunted him at night. He quickly grew tired of his long, circular conversations with Hermione and Ron.

When he could, he tried to steal away with Ginny to take a turn about the yard or down the long drive, and often she gave him the silence he desperately needed. But just as often—and perhaps more as time went on—he found he was unable to focus on how her presence comforted him. And then, one morning he was totally oblivious to the fact that George was making a bit of fried egg dance rather vigorously with Percy's napkin, until a laughing Ron accidentally spilled orange juice in his lap.

"Sorry!" Ron gasped, and Harry didn't grin, reach for a napkin, and say "Forget it," until Ron's own grin faded and Harry realized his blank face probably made him seem angry.

"You alright, mate?" Ron mumbled from the outside of the bedroom door while Harry changed his pants.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm fine."

"Listen, uh…."

Harry could hear the way Ron's voice had changed, and knew it meant that he was about to hear something Ron had been silently rehearsing.

"I was just thinking about Lupin and Tonks," Harry interrupted. They _had _been on his mind ever since he'd woken that morning, aching with the memory of Lupin's ecstatic visit to Shell Cottage announcing Teddy's birth. "I've… been thinking, I need to go visit Teddy and Mrs. Tonks. I am his godfather and all…so…."

He opened the door.

Ron stepped back quickly. "Yeah. Right. Good idea." He shuffled his feet a little. "Uh, so are you going today then?"

"Yeah," Harry said, before he could hesitate. Once he had said it, he felt some relief at the idea of getting out of the house, but also a sense of dread. He tried to ignore it.

"Alright then," Ron mumbled and headed down the stairs.

"I'll be going straight away," Harry added numbly, and took out his wand. With a pang of remembrance—the first and last time he had been to her home was just after the attack which had killed Hedwig and Moody—he turned on the spot and found himself before Mrs. Tonks' front door.

The building seemed untouched. Harry wondered what sorts of protections Andromeda might still be keeping upon the house. Suddenly, he felt stupid for dropping in unannounced, but there was nothing for it—he went up to the door and knocked.

No one answered. Harry glanced around the deserted street with a feeling of mild panic, and knocked again, harder. "Mrs. Tonks?" he called. "It's me, Harry Potter."

Had someone taken them away, unnoticed? Or had they simply gone to stay somewhere safer now that the threat of Voldemort had returned?

"Mrs. Tonks!" He hammered at the door, trying not to give in to the morbid images flashing across his vision. The vengeance of Voldemort's followers would not spare infants. He remembered the children of the campground host at the Quidditch World Cup, being dangled and tossed through the air by laughing Death Eaters, their heads lolling sickly.

An unfamiliarly sharp voice erupted as the door knob began to speak. "What feature did Teddy inherit from his father?" it demanded.

Harry stared at the knob, wondering whether he should reply.

"I don't know," he fumbled. "It's hard to tell with a metamorphmagus isn't it? Er, I know he was glad that Teddy didn't seem to have any … werewolf… he wasn't a werewolf… he said so when he came to tell us that Teddy was born." He tightened his hand around the wand in his pocket, just in case the voice belonged to a Death Eater.

The door opened slowly, a tiny crack, and the sound of a baby crying came from somewhere deeper within the house. A familiar face framed by long, dark hair passed behind the crack, one eye showing, and for a second Harry could hardly resist drawing his wand before remembering just how much Andromeda looked like her sister Bellatrix at first glance.

"It's me," he said. "I thought I should come see you and Teddy."

After a long pause, the door opened fully.

"Come in," Andromeda said, and beckoned him inside.

She looked older than when he'd last seen her, perhaps due to the tortures she'd had to endure when the Death Eaters had come to her for leads on Harry's whereabouts. Perhaps it was because of the recent loss of her daughter, husband, and son-in-law.

"I'll just grab Teddy, I had to put him in his crib when I answered the door…."

She hurried away down the hall, leaving Harry to stand by the door unable to think of anything to say but "I'm sorry," for all she had lost because of him. The house was clean and orderly, and bore no sign that anything was amiss except for a certain sense of emptiness.

Andromeda came back out with Teddy to usher him into the kitchen. Teddy's hair had become curly and auburn and he was still very small to Harry's eyes. He whimpered softly and waved a pink, clenched fist as she bounced him in her arms. It seemed incredible that such a fragile little person had survived even a month in this world when his parents had not. Harry could not help but wonder if that kind of luck would last.

"How have you been?" Andromeda asked Harry. "Sit down, please."

He sat in the chair she pulled out for him. "I'm sorry. I should have told you I was coming—"

"It's alright. You're Teddy's godfather. You're family." She gave him a tired smile. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Me?" Harry stared at her face, so much kinder than her sister's. "Oh… I…well, I haven't—"

"Go on, just mind his head," she said softly as she held Teddy out to him.

"No, I really shouldn't, I have no idea how to—"

Teddy began to fuss and Andromeda drew him back toward herself, patting his back as she laid him against her shoulder. Harry watched helplessly.

"He's just tired," she reassured him. "How are Arthur and Molly? I'm sure it's still very hard for the family…."

"Oh… yeah. They're getting on alright," Harry said. "As well as can be expected. I… actually, I came to ask if there's anything I can do. I know you just had a private funeral for... them, but I just wanted to ask."

"That's very kind of you, Harry," Andromeda said. "But you are already doing the most important thing. I'm sure you have a lot on your mind now that it's obvious the war isn't over. I heard you and McGonagall and the new minister are going to be working together, is that true?"

"Well, yes, but…." Harry trailed off, unable to bear the confidence in her eyes. "I meant—is there anything I can do as Teddy's godfather?"

Teddy had stopped fussing and lay peacefully blinking at Harry from Andromeda's shoulder.

"You're welcome to come and visit any time of course," she said, "but right now, it's enough that you're protecting everyone."

For a moment Harry felt a searing anger, a hot gush of disgust in his chest at how wrong she was; he hadn't protected everyone—he hadn't protected _anyone_ in her family from death!

"You're the one who protected _me_," he said stiffly to the smooth table top.

"Because I knew you were our best hope at defeating him. You still are. Besides, I'm not one to give in to a Death Eater or any other fool."

Harry barely heard the last sentence. He got to his feet. "Are you sure there's nothing else I can do?" He tried to keep the desperate edge from his voice.

"Nothing else? Harry, what you're doing is everything."

She looked up at him with serene strength, and he reluctantly steeled himself to return to the world he had hoped to escape.

"You're right." He swallowed. "I'd better get back to it then." Back to the endless dead-end questions.

"Thank you for coming by, Harry. Teddy's usually a cheerful boy… next time, you'll have to come earlier in the morning and hold him."

"Sure. Thanks Mrs. Tonks," Harry said, submitting to her awkward one-armed embrace before he turned to leave. He glanced back before closing the door, and saw Andromeda holding Teddy's arm and waving goodbye to Harry with it.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!


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